


Being John Watson-ish

by elwinglyre



Category: Being John Malkovich (1999), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A true mind fuck, Adventures inside a cerebral cortex, Angst, Author John Watson, BAMF John, Being John Malkovich mashup, First Kiss, First Time, How to fall in love with a brain, Hurt/Comfort, Invasion by a Detective Bodysnatcher, M/M, Past Soldier John, RPS - Freeform, Sexual Tension, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock does things not so good, cranky sherlock, first time inside someone else, too many feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-09
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2019-11-14 09:00:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 69,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18049523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elwinglyre/pseuds/elwinglyre
Summary: When consulting detective Sherlock Holmes steps on one toe too many at a crime scene, he's consigned to a desk job in an archaic office on the seventh-and-a-half floor of the New Scotland Yard. It’s in this bleak office that Sherlock discovers a portal into the mind of renowned author John Watson. Grander than his mind palace, this new wonderland affords Sherlock new vistas of experimentation. To learn more about the mystery behind the portal, Sherlock seeks out and befriends Watson. But then it all goes wrong when others find the secret portal door—including the man whose brain he visits.A huge thank you to recently_folded, whose beta I deeply appreciate. Through thorough corrections, comments, and suggestions, she makes me a better writer. Thank you! (and I mean that exclamation point)Updates weekly until end.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This heady WIP really won’t be that much like Being John Malkovich in the respect that yes, this is part romance (something the movie is not). The main premise and scene ideas from the film will be used. This story will also be a meeting of the minds with its parallels to dark humor and jabs at celebrity culture. It’s third person limited to Sherlock to second person and third plural at times when Sherlock is looking through John’s eyes, and John is in control. Present tense adds to the movie feel.
> 
> Be prepared for a real mind fuck.

The long, layered red hair looks natural enough. As he stuffs his black curls under the full lace netting, he’s careful not to muss up his fresh manicure. How do women tolerate these ridiculous acrylic nails?  

The flaming-red locks are essential to the charade. It seems this suspect, Duncan Ross, has an affinity for shapely, larger-than-life redheads.  

As a test, he flips his flaming hair back as if he’s flirting with a soldier in full dress. It’s secure. One wink. Two winks. Application of Cleopatra eyes: perfect! 

If he fucked women, he’d fuck himself. Sherlock puckers up his full, pouty lips and raises a plucked brow (some sacrifices have to be made). Without this disguise, he’d fuck himself—if he fucked men.  

But he doesn’t. Fuck. Not that plenty of people didn’t want to fuck him. They do. Always. But, he’s never interested. Ever. 

Being Sherlock Holmes was time-consuming, but he never knew this level of beauty would take this much time! 

Over the years, when assuming other identities, he had found he was the most convincing through method acting. In this particular role, he became all the more believable when he became a she. 

That and the right shade of lipstick. 

The trick of finding the proper shade to compliment his hair was difficult enough, but matching the foundation to his pale skin was next to impossible. Thank God for Harrod’s! The ruby-red matte lipstick with matching lip liner makes his mouth pop—at least that’s what the lady at the cosmetics counter had said—and the pale velvet liquid foundation makes him glow. He bats his long and lush lashes in the mirror. Precision is key. Haunting, the lady said. He admits he has a real talent for application. 

The false breasts and the padding on the hips help with the shapely hourglass element of the disguise, but the beaded black fringed cocktail dress and spike heels make him simply irresistible. If he had had a time machine and were brainless, he could have been one of the women in that Robert Palmer video.

His long fingers carefully inch the black stockings up over his legs. He actually was surprised to find that he enjoyed them shaved and thinks he might continue the practice after this little undercover sting of his. That he intentionally neglected to tell Lestrade and his stable of imbeciles what he’d planned should not be too problematic. Not that Sherlock gives a rat’s arse. 

Before heading down the stairs, he slips his...or her...mobile into his black Chanel beaded handbag, and dabs designer perfume behind his ears and wrists. Time to get into character. 

The game is on!

She’s to meet Ross for drinks at eight. Sherlock has read on Cosmo’s site that being fashionably late piques the interest of some men, but one shouldn’t hold their date up for too long. Ross is the sort of person who would grow impatient if left to wait too long.  

The most difficult part of the disguise is actually sounding like a woman, not some man in drag. Although she knows that Ross is inclined either way, Sherlock will seem more defenseless as a woman.  

As the grand test of his disguise, Sherlock dressed up and went public, testing voices on strangers she met. The final test was Anderson. She thought Anderson would recognize him...er...her... immediately. Instead he hit on Sherlock shamelessly. 

She'd always believed that Anderson thought with his cock. Now she has proof. His number. On the back of his card: Phillip A. Anderson. His middle name must really be arsehole. 

Anderson never suspected it was Sherlock. And that was before she plucked her brows.

 Maybe she’ll let Anderson know it was really her (or him) sometime. Call him. Set up a date. Let Anderson buy her a drink. Then, right after he asks Sherlock to his place for a quick fuck (which for most of Anderson’s unfortunate victims would include premature ejaculation, followed by idiotic baby talk), Sherlock would speak to him in his baritone voice. Giving himself away. And... 

And then Anderson would want to punch Sherlock, but he won’t. At least not since Geoff gave him that formal reprimand. That was after Anderson actually did take a swing at him. What  _had_ he called Anderson? So many insults, so many occasions. Ah, yes... a vacuous, reprobate fornicator. Not much different from any other insult Sherlock had slung in Anderson’s direction. Either Anderson had been in the middle of a crap day or his tiny mind couldn’t understand Sherlock’s elevated vocabulary. Either way, he took his infamous swing, which, unfortunately for him, had missed and landed on Lestrade’s chin.  

 _What a moron_. 

  

\---------------------------

 

As she stands in front of The K Bar, Sherlock prepares to make his entrance. She swings her hips and immediately people near the door fall silent and stare. Eyes appreciate as she moves to a quiet seat where she can observe her mark from across the room. She snaps out her handbag and uses a compact to check her lipstick and the room. Ahh, there he is. At the bar.  

He’s handsome. Dark eyes, thick dark wavy hair with hints of grey. His bespoke suit is Savile Row. On the bar stool, his legs are spread; his eyes confidently scan the bar. Sherlock drops her hanky when his eyes track near her. 

She watches him turn back to the bar, where he begins to spin his drink. He’s starting to become impatient. Sherlock stands.  

She also notices someone else come in. Donovan. She takes a seat at a table not far from Ross. She’s here for the same reason. A sting. But not Sherlock’s.  _Fine._

Sherlock makes her play. 

From across the room, Sherlock moves with the grace of a dancer. In the bar’s polished mirror, Ross sees her. He twirls around in his seat. She holds Ross’ gaze and gives a sly Mona Lisa smile. She wears a look that promises more. He sits forward, openly appreciating the woman he hooked up with online for tonight's date. 

Sherlock sees Donovan frowning from the corner of her eye. Donovan is wearing last year’s Ralph Lauren knock-off. In red. How predictable.  

Sherlock slinks next to Ross like  _she_ owns him. In a real Ralph Lauren. This year’s. 

“What are you drinking?” she purrs into the man’s ear. Sherlock feels her voice rich and sexy. Ross raises his glass. His suit is even better than she thought. She must get the tailor’s name.

“Hello, gorgeous. I’m having a Manhattan. What would you like?” 

The bartender looks at Sherlock expectantly. “I’ll have the same,” Sherlock murmurs. She takes a seat on the stool next to Ross, spinning around enough so that when she crosses her silky thighs, her leg bushes enticingly against his, then lingers.  

“I have to say, you’re even more attractive in person.” 

She leans in and puts her hand on his thigh. His name isn’t really Duncan Ross. The only thing real about him in the bio was his height.  

Ross isn’t even subtle as his dark eyes devour Sherlock’s breasts and lips. This is too easy. She flirts with him under her thick lashes and teasingly takes a sip of his drink.

It’s all in the waiting now. The bartender serves her. It’s never the first drink. It’s always the one after. Sherlock flips her red locks off shoulders dusted with iridescent powder. They shimmer in the mirror of the bar. And it’s always, always, time-release. His victims die slowly. Painfully. And the sedative leaves no trace. He enjoys watching them drink it. That is the trick. But she won’t. All she needs is the drink. The vial is in Ross’ right coat pocket. And the handcuffs in Sherlock’s Chanel bag.  

They chat and flirt. It’s a bore, but necessary. He says he’s an architect. He’s a liar.  

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees him slip the drug into her second Manhatten while the bartender’s back is turned. He’s good. Very good.  

Ross is pocketing the vial in his posh suit jacket when Sherlock pounces on top of him, in one swift movement sweeping Ross off the chair and grabbing the back of his coat to smash him face-down on the bar. She pulls out handcuffs and his mobile, already texting Lestrade. So important to be able to multitask. 

Sherlock barks out in his voice with the cuffs ready to go. “Police investigation. You’re under arrest for the murder of Adrienne Alonze, Simone Sappo, and Michelle Trent. And my attempted murder.” 

“Oi!” shouts the bartender. “I knew you wasn’t a woman!”

Ross takes advantage of Sherlock's momentary distraction and gets his feet underneath himself. He flips across the bar, taking Sherlock by the waist in one arm and swiping off the wig with his other. Sherlock pushes the spiked drink aside before flying over the bar with the perp. 

Sherlock finds himself on his back with over two hundred pounds of angry psychopathic murderer on top. Ross waves Sherlock’s wig around over his head like a red victory flag and then head butts the now-brunet Sherlock. He sees stars, but manages to wrestle Ross over despite the blood now flowing freely from his forehead, half-blinding him. 

Sherlock’s afraid his stockings have suffered in the disaster and his Ralph Lauren may be ruined. Broken glass crunches under him, but one good knee to Ross’ groin provides a modicum of satisfaction to Sherlock’s mood. He further punctuates his dissatisfaction with three rapid, flat palmed blows to Ross’s ears as they roll around behind the bar.  

Sherlock finally manages to wrap his leg around Ross and flip him onto his stomach. He straddles him in victory.  

Advantage regained, half-blind or not.  

“You can’t prove a thing,” Ross says, struggling beneath him.  

Arguing with the man will serve no purpose, and Sherlock is certain there’s a piece of a highball glass embedded in his left arse cheek that’s digging its way to the right cheek. He reaches back and pulls it out. No, not highball, a Collins. Hmm, there’s always something he misses. 

He stands on shaky legs, a bit dizzy. It seems one of his heels is on the other side of the counter. 

“You boxed my ear! I’ve gone bloody deaf!” Ross yells from the floor, still struggling to get up.   

Sherlock plants his bare stockinged foot in the middle of the man’s back. He’s a bit upset to see his toe has poked through the nylons. As an added bit of revenge, he pushes Ross back down, cheek flattened to the floor. 

“Boo, hoo! And I believe that is mine,” Sherlock says dramatically and yanks the wig from Ross’ hand (thank you very much). He smooths out the snarled red strands with one hand while he wipes the blood out of his eyes with the other. "You'll have to forgive my lack of distress at your predicament, but after all, that is my AB positive you've splashed on this new Chanel bag, and I'm fairly certain that that's no love bite on my bum."

 “Is all this legal?” the bartender asks. “Lemme see your warrant card if you’re coming in here breaking up my bar and arresting my customers.”

 “Perfectly legal. As a consulting detective on special to the Yard, I’m assisting in the apprehension of this serial killer, who’s been preying on your customers,” Sherlock explains. 

The crowd becomes louder. They’ve gained an audience even though Sherlock can’t clearly see what’s going on. Sherlock swipes his hand over his eyes again. The combination of melting mascara, eyeliner, and blood burns. 

“Sherlock!”  

Sherlock knows that screech too well. It’s Donovan. He was hoping she’d left. 

“You! I didn’t recognize you,” the bartender calls out. “Oi, you’re that Sherlock Holmes bloke. Hey, mates! It’s bleedin’ Sherlock Holmes who busted up me bar!”  

Bleeding, indeed, Sherlock thinks as he wipes once more at his eyes. He’s getting a touch light-headed.  

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Donovan demands, voice raising. “We had a sting all set up. Look at this mess! We’re not paying for this!” 

“Most of the damage is to the patrons,” says the bartender. 

“Oi, shut it!” Donovan snaps the bartender who shrinks back.  

“You should be thanking me,” Sherlock says, struggling to snap on the cuffs. Done, he stands, then leans against the bar for support. “I have apprehended him. With sufficient evidence. You’ll find he’s laced my drink, which I presciently pushed down the bar out of reach of any...resistance. In his coat pocket you’ll find a vial containing the same slow-acting sedative he’s used on his victims. In his hotel room, you’ll also find zip ties and gags, along with his usual assortment of knives, hacksaws, and sadistic sex toys.” 

“You are in serious shit. And you look, well, look at you!” Donovan laughs. “What won’t you do, you lunatic?! You look like a slut! Lestrade told you not to interfere in our cases again. Not without his direction. But of course you did. You can’t help yourself, you freak! And you really fit the part tonight!” 

“Quit whining. My plan worked perfectly. Obviously. And yours?” Sherlock wipes more blood from his face to see an angry Lestrade standing behind her along with some others who are still a bit blurry. “You? That dress wouldn’t attract anything but a washed-up forensics officer. Oh, hello Anderson.”  

Anderson frowns, but then sees a real opportunity and pulls out his mobile.  

Sherlock ducks his head. “The crime scene only!” 

“Sherlock. I told you to stay out of this one. We had it handled,” Lestrade says, stepping around the bar. “But no. How did you find out about this sting? Snooping in police records again? I’ve told you off about this before. When Donovan here texted us that the perp had already hooked up with some ‘street walker,’ we were about to call it off. Only to find out…” 

 He grabs Sherlock by the arm. “Come on. You’re coming in with us. Donovan, get the perp here. Anderson, collect the...evidence. I’ve got Sherlock.” 

Usually he’d shake off the help, but he’s wobbling as though he actually had drunk the concoction in that vial. He’s certain he’s not wrong about it always being the second drink. 

He lets Geoff lead him around the bar and when he reaches down to pick up his other shoe, he almost falls and brings Geoff down with him. 

“Streetwalker?” Sherlock mumbles. He winces as they walk to the door. Blisters on his feet and a cut on his bum. “Look at this dress! Better even than an escort. Maybe with Miss Adler’s clientele, but hardly a common prostitute.” 

“I can’t believe you’re worried that we've maligned your fashion sense. You should be more worried about what Mycroft is going to say about all this.”  

Sherlock looks down at his hands, bag and wig clutched together. He counts across his fingers. “I lost two nails.” 

“On top of it all, you’re pissed.” 

“No. Only one drink.” He counts his fingers again. Another nail is broken. He knew he should have gone with the round instead of the oval. 

“Drugged then.” 

“Not drugged. Only the second drink is spiked.” 

Lestrade squints his eyes when they get out to the car. “What? Did you pluck your brows?” 

“Needs must. You’re worried about telling him. Why are you going to tell him?”   

“He’s my partner! Of course I’m going to tell him! Besides, it’s not like he doesn’t already know.”  

“Yes, yes. Mycroft the Omniscient.”

Ever since Lestrade has got into a “relationship” with Mycroft, working with the detective has become impossible. Suddenly Lestrade cares. Well, not that he didn’t care about Sherlock before, but now it’s getting in the way of The Work. Geoff is worried about Sherlock’s welfare. Worse, he listens to his brother’s insidious drivel about Sherlock taking too many risks and having a death wish. Lestrade even visits his Mummy and dad. They call him “son”! 

“I’m not sure whether I should take you to hospital or lock you up.” 

“Neither. Take me home.” 

“So poor Mrs. Hudson will have to take care of you?! That woman is a saint. No. Home with me then.” 

“I’d rather you lock me up.” 

“Sherlock, I’m not locking you up—I only said that to make my point.” 

“So am I. Lock me up or take me home.” 

“Can we at least talk about that dress you’re wearing? And what is that you’re holding?” 

Sherlock looks down at the wig in his hand. 

 

_____________________

 

Despite his protestations, they go to the Mystrade residence—as Sherlock has been referring to the new blended domicile of good vs. evil.  

It was too much to ask that Mycroft not be home.  

“Mummy will be so excited. She always wanted a daughter,” Mycroft says. 

Sherlock shivers. He remembers how she used to put him in frilly dresses and wouldn’t cut his hair. 

“Even disheveled, I do believe you make a most becoming woman,” Mycroft says. “I'll bet Sally was green with envy. Certainly, Uncle Rudy would have been.”

“Sally? Since when are you on a first name basis with Geoff’s team of idiots? Why would you even want to clutter up your brain with their names?” 

Sherlock thinks he’s about to vomit when Mycroft kisses Lestrade on the cheek, then raises his eyebrow pointedly at Sherlock and kisses him full on the lips.

“Do I have to witness such depravity?” 

“You are asking me that with those nails?"  

Sherlock sneers at him.

"To answer your first question, Greg has instructed me in some social skills that I was sorely lacking. Might I add, you could also use some lessons.”

“Is that what this is all about? I do want to get cleaned up. Please make this short.” 

Sherlock hates Mycroft’s mental eye rolls.  

“This is exactly what I was referring to. It seems you stepped on more than a few toes with this one, brother dear. I think some sort of restitution needs to be paid.” 

“If there is any retribution, I shouldn't be the one on the receiving end. I have once again rescued his band of inept imbeciles from certain failure and brought a serial killer to justice.”

“Quit acting like you’re our bloody savior! We had it worked out. You made a right mess of it all. Now you’ve wasted the department's money and manpower after I promised the commissioner you’d keep out of this. I’m going to have to listen to him go ballistic—not to mention that now you’ve created a whole new stack of paperwork for me to do.”

“Mycroft can handle the commissioner. What’s a few more hours of paperwork? Just a bit of time that you’d have used up making besotted moon-eyes at my brother!” 

“Actually, Sherlock, your brother shouldn’t have to step in every time you cock something up. Mycroft and I had planned to spend the weekend at your Mum and Dad’s in Sussex, but now...” 

“Mummy will be so disappointed,” Mycroft says. “But I believe we have a way for you to make this up to Gregory: eitheryou experience what the consequences of your interference cost Gregory and his team by spending some time at a desk job, or you take our place at Mummy’s.”

“You’re joking,” Sherlock says.

“Not at all, brother dear.” 

“This is ridiculous! You expect me to work behind a desk at Scotland Yard?”

“Or it will be weeks in Sussex for you,” Lestrade says. 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. The choice is clear.

“Done properly,” Lestrade says. “And the filing too.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Big shout out to my incredible beta recentlyfolded for her editing, advice, and going above and beyond to help make this the best chapter and story.

“There is no floor seven and a half.” 

“Clearly, there is because you are on it,” Donovan explains to Sherlock. “You’ll find your desk behind this door, along with all the paperwork Lestrade left for you. Don’t bother to sneer at our desktop computer. It’s what we have, or what _you_ have, which is deservedly less.”

“Why would I have less?” Seven and a half is a mere hallway with a door.

Donovan ignores him completely, smiling wickedly. “You’ll need to duck to get into your desk.” She opens to the door to what looks to Sherlock as more of a large closet than an office. She’s overly pleased to show it to him. She loves it when he’s miserable.

“Is this some sort of joke? Are you filming this? Where are the cameras?”

“It’s no joke. That is your office, and this is your desk. Get busy or I’ll have to go back and tell Lestrade to call a car for you. Sussex, was it?”

Sherlock does indeed have to duck. This “office” is part of what was once the attic. It’s between where the old building ended and the new began. His desk is against the outside wall where the ceiling’s forty-five degree angle begins four and a half feet from the floor, making it impossible for him to stand up straight in over half of the room.

“Have fun!” she says and slams the door.

Sherlock throws his coat onto an old chair in the corner. He swipes his fingers through his hair and hesitates before he crawls behind his new desk and boots up the computer, which grinds and moans as if it’s being bludgeoned to death by a thousand dreams of all the more productive and fascinating things he could be doing. Instead of dying, it blinks into pathetic life and all Sherlock wants to do is put it out of its misery.

Next to the desk are three large crates overflowing with files.

He leans back and bangs his head against the ceiling. This is going to be painful in more ways than one. He picks up a stack of folders from the crate closest to the desk and thumbs through them. Cold cases. Painfully elementary and dull. A feeble-minded forensic piss pot like Anderson should have been able to solve some of these. This is an egregious waste of his capabilities.

But Sherlock thinks of the alternative. Sussex. Mummy telling him he needs to find himself a spouse to take “proper care” of him, then proceeding to point out every mistake he’s made in his life, starting with setting his hair on fire when he was four testing the reflective properties of different pieces of broken glass, and ending with his most recent overdose in a flophouse in Soho.

Whoever had had the office before him, it looked as though they had been as bored as Sherlock, for the opposite wall held an oak bookcase filled with untidy volumes of eclectic titles. A musty green settee sat next to the bookcase. Not the typical office furnishings, but handy as a place to lie down and relax. Welcome, in fact, since one couldn’t really stand up straight in this office. Sherlock imagines lying down may be the only way to get comfortable.

At least the room has no smoke detectors or cameras. As he removes a cigarette from his Belstaff’s pocket, Sherlock hums a few bars of Schumann at his luck. Since there's no smoke detector, he lights up. He inhales deeply and blows the cloud of smoke into the middle of the room. What a delightful rush!

Sherlock returns to his prison of a desk to begin serving his sentence. While the chair groans from Sherlock’s weight, Sherlock is at least happy his head doesn’t hit the ceiling when he’s seated closer to the desk. When he leans back, the chair complains more. At least that’s the only thing complaining. No idiots running about or making judgements as he sucks down more nicotine, filling the room with carcinogens.

He briefly scans a memo from Lestrade on the top of the crate. _Blah, blah, blah!_ He crumples it up, then tosses it on the desk. He opens up the top file and skims through it. He is soon making piles. One pile is for cases with enough evidence for solution. The other pile has wholly inadequate information to come to any conclusion without serious further investigation.

He opens a WordPerfect document on the brontosaurus of a computer, then types out on the keyboard: 

 

Case #NSYH87-03B159CD2

12-03

Husbnd killeed wife. Most likly useed shears in heer sewing baket seen n evidence phoo #CD2-69C  


 

The keys stick. Half of what he’s typed is nonsense. It’s irritating that the letters which always stick on keyboards are the ones most used. He pries them off, and cleans them using the crumpled loose memo.

He sets that folder into a third pile reserved for those cases that he’s solved. 

It’s also irritating that office etiquette dictates that offices no longer have ashtrays, he thinks as he flicks his ash onto the window sill behind him. Not that it would hurt the desk, which looks as though the top has had more than its share of cigarettes set on it and left to burn to the stub. 

At least he can see out of the dirty window to the river's banks and a bit of daylight. 

He will ask Lestrade for another keyboard. As for the ashtray, Mrs. Hudson hides extras in her linen closet. It would seem an odd place to keep them, but he knows that’s where she goes for a smoke when she’s out of her herbal soothers. 

While the complaining oak desk chair has a cushion, it’s lumpy. Sherlock wonders if a sore arse is meant to be part of the punishment. The desk is as old as the settee, the bookcase, and books within it. The whole office is out of place and odd for New Scotland Yard. Sherlock wouldn’t be surprised to learn that Anderson and Donovan had it furnished just to fuck with him. 

He flips through another folder. Neighbor having an affair. Killed husband and family dog. All the evidence was in front of them. Obvious. Sherlock is certain that he may go mad. 

Next. This one will require a bit of research. The computer has internet access, but Sherlock is once again plunged backwards in time, creeping onto the internet through an old, dial-up modem. Where is the standard NSY broadband that powers the 550 wifi workstations in the offices below? Not here! He waits painfully long for each page to load. A bit of digging into the Yard’s online archives and this one is solved, but he resents the time it takes to write out a report. 

He opens another file. At last. Something at least marginally worthy of his talents, and an opportunity to leave this shoe-box of an office to go down and dig through the evidence room. 

Just riding in the elevator un-cramps his back. When he gets to the evidence room service counter, his way is barred. Sherlock paces back and forth in front of the locked window while the woman behind it stares daggers in his direction. He hates being thwarted.

Sherlock immediately takes his mobile from his pocket and texts Lestrade. _Need into evidence room._ SH

  _I’m in Sussex_ is the response seconds later. 

“I am employed here,” Sherlock yells, banging on the window. He points to the badge clipped to his white shirt. “Here’s my identification.”

She slides open the window. _At last!_  

“No, you’re not. But as always you are a right knobhead. Now sod off, or I’ll call a security officer!” She slams the window closed.

“But I have an ID.” Sherlock pulls it off his shirt and slaps the badge against the bullet-resistant window at her eye level. 

“It’s a temp,” she says, cracking her gum, “and you probably nicked it like you always do.”

“How can you keep me out?! Lives are on the line! You don’t even have a title.”

He grinds his teeth as he texts Lestrade again. Why won’t he answer? He’s about to resort to texting Mycroft when he hears footsteps approaching from behind him that he recognizes. 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. 

“Mr. Big Brain! You’re supposed to be able to solve these things just by thinking about them, so why don’t you just scurry right back to your office and get that work done,” Anderson says. 

Sherlock turns. Anderson stands in front of him, pointing back at the elevator. Sherlock suspects that that prissy woman behind the counter— who owns a Siamese cat and goldfish—called Anderson down. She knows they despise each other. He supposes that’s enough of a reason in itself to call him, just to see the fireworks.

Sherlock rapid-fires another text off to Lestrade, then looks up at Anderson. “This is outrageous! How am I to do the job assigned me?” 

“It wasn’t assigned you. Lestrade gave you the cases to enter into the database, not to solve,” Anderson hisses and crosses his arms. Sherlock begins to wonder if Anderson volunteered to come just to piss on Sherlock.

“Why should I bother to enter cold cases that can easily be cleared from your books? I’ve already solved two, and it’s only half past ten.”

“Wonderful. But you’re to do it as Lestrade ordered.” 

_Go back to your office._  

Finally. A return text from Lestrade: 

_I have already solved three cases from the office. SH_  

_Good. Solve more. But from your office. Leave the poor clerk in evidence alone._

Sherlock snorts at the reply, and Anderson smirks. _Bastard_. It was Lestrade who told him to come down here. 

_I can’t live in this tedium. Please tell me that those cyanide tablets are still in the evidence room._ _SH_

_I’ve half a mind to let you take them. Clear up any cold cases you can, but from your office. Enter those cold file cases into our database. All of them._

_With the computer you gave me? There is no scanner._ _SH_  

_Don’t scan them. Type them. Use the template forms. Catalog them using those forms. We left you the instructions in the top folder. Read them. When you are done, there are more. Boxes and boxes full._

 “Getting the answer you wanted?” Anderson says acidly.

“Do shut up” Sherlock shoots back.  

“I knew you weren’t much of a lady,” Anderson laughs. “I do miss the heels and dress though.” 

Sherlock hates him. He thinks of five ways he could end Anderson’s career. He might actually go through with one of them some day.  

_The office is unacceptable. SH_

_What time shall I tell Mummy to expect you then?_ Lestrade texts back.

He feels like throwing his mobile against the wall, but that would serve no purpose. Sherlock knows he’s defeated.

  _Don’t.SH_

_She will be disappointed. I’ll give her your love._

 Sherlock thrusts his mobile back in his pocket and goes back to hell on the seventh-and-a-half floor without another word to Anderson.

 ————————-

Instructions! He didn’t need to read the instructions! He’s a bloody genius, he can deduce them. A child could enter the data into the forms without direction. Tedious. That’s all it was.

Worse, he has sucked down the last cigarette and has no nicotine patches. Why did Lestrade insist he quit the coke if he was going to force him into a closet and make him do work that a trained monkey could do?

_Boxes upon boxes full_. Sherlock shudders. He may not survive this. Maybe he should have gone to Sussex after all.

Sherlock jumps up and paces the room, which is a challenge since he must do most of it crouched down as though he is some sort of chimpanzee. He feels as if he’s in a cave, a primitive hominid forced to use an archaic technology of stones and chisels.

He throws himself down on the musty green settee and lies back, draping his long limbs off the back and sides. He closes his eyes. He’d go to his mind palace if there were any case to solve or puzzles to decipher. Alas. There’s nothing but a void, a cavern. And he’s trapped inside. He’s gone through almost one crate. He tries not to think of the many more that await him. 

He did find one case that might be worth a second look when this torture is over. He may as well make that his silver lining: find the diamonds amongst the cobbles, cases to solve after his sentence is served.

 This office. His prison. Whose books? Whose furniture? He wonders. This office is not the refurbished neoclassical style of the radically remodeled seven floors below or the brand new ones above. More likely this room contains rescued remains. Even the walls are a throwback in time. It’s as if he's in a tiny museum of the Curtis Green Building from before they gutted and rebuilt it into the New Scotland Yard. 

At least he has mobile reception here. Or so he thought. He reads over an article on bees’ attraction to color on his mobile. Since it was up and bookmarked, he has no problem, but when he goes to another link, the page doesn’t load. He checks the bars. The signal is surprisingly poor, puzzling this close to the top of the building. Is there some sort of interference here? 

He stands and goes to the bookcase, fingers tracing over the titles. When he was a child, books were his only dear, personal friends. In them he found companions with strength, intelligence, and courage; he found adversaries worthy of his intellect with extraordinary ferocity, stamina, and guile. Through books’ magic doors, he found the good company of those who might understand him. Led by each writer’s mighty pen, he lived the peril and romance first-hand. He breathed every letter, every word. Real life became for him dull, soul-killing monotony.

One need not eat when one has more sustaining sustenance. Books became his feast, his food. Now his nourishment comes from cases. Sherlock surveys the thickness of the leather, the rich, gold embossing. Melville, Milton, Shakespeare. Macaulay's _Essays_ and volumes of history. Most of the books were well-read and -loved with tattered edges. Sherlock begins to deduce that reader. Most likely male. Educated in science and literature.

_Ivanhoe_ graced the shelves. Stevenson’s and Poe’s works. Then Sherlock’s heart almost stops. _Gray’s Anatomy_! He carefully slips the gilded leather book from the shelf. Opening the cover feels like a religious experience. Sherlock holds his breath, turns the page. First edition.

Whose office _was_ this? 

He carefully turns the pages. Carver’s illustrations are magnificent. What a wonder this is.

 He looks up at the rest of the books, then carefully closes _Gray’s Anatomy_ , sets it on his desk for later, and returns to the bookcase. He starts pulling books from the shelves. Most are first, second, or third editions. The value of these is astounding, but even more so, the collection and where it’s at. There are a few medical texts along with some books on spiritualism. The man who owned these was a physician. But also, Sherlock posits, a writer.

These books had one owner. The manner in which they are worn is similar. The same hand turned the pages. The same hand closed the books.

Who was he? Sherlock begins to text Lestrade, but his reception has faded. He goes into the hall, which has one bar. He wonders about venturing down to the seventh floor, but decides his chances of escaping detection are better on the roof. He climbs the steps. It’s locked, but the key inside his ID opens the door. He steps out into a foggy London day. Full bars!

Sherlock begins texting:

_What is this office you’ve put me in? SH_

_It’s the only place I could find where you wouldn’t drive my staff completely around the bend_. Lestrade texted back. 

Sherlock begins to suspect that Mycroft may have had a hand in setting this room up. No expense for him is too great when it comes to fucking with Sherlock’s mind.

_Where did the furnishings come from?_ SH 

_They’ve been there since we moved into the building!_ Then his mobile pings again. It’s Mycroft.

_Please stop texting Greg. We are busy._

 Sherlock shudders. He doesn’t want to know about sex holidays at Mummy and dad’s. It was revolting.

He stomps back down the stairway. 

He did get the answer to his question. This office: it’s not something left behind; it’s a shrine. But to whom? 

Sherlock confirms with the brontosaurus the date of first construction of this building. Newer than he thought: erected in 1940. The books were older, making it impossible for the person these belonged to to ever have been in this room. Therefore, this was indeed a shrine to that person. Sherlock researches some of the books he’s found. Some first editions are particularly rare. After a few minutes, he’s had enough. Bloody popups! It seems this Compaq monstrosity’s browser has no popup blockers on it. He keeps getting annoying suggestions for other, more modern books and authors. The same author’s face fills his screen repeatedly. Sherlock clicks out of them all. He has no interest in predictable pop detective novels. 

Sherlock returns to the bookcase and paces before it. Books are often gifts with inscriptions. Sherlock methodically takes one book after another from the shelves, making sure he has missed none. Some past message might give him a clue as to the owner of the books. 

Then he stops. He narrows his examination. What books are out of place? Well-meaning gifts? Books the owner would cherish because of who gave them, not their content—although the best gifts would be both. Now the books he pulled off the shelf were the ones uncharacteristic of its owner. An old field guide of European birds held a note from the sender: “For the relaxing days ahead in your retirement. May you sit and watch and wonder. Best Wishes, James.”

Sherlock flips to the date of publication. First edition, 1928. Most likely he retired on or near that year.

He continues. This time he searches for books cherished for content as well as who gave the gift. There are a few more personal inscriptions, but none reveal much more than the first name of the sender. Then finally a fine, leather-bound book with [hubbed spines](http://www.yeoldebookbinder.org/bookterms.html%22%20%5Cl%20%22Hubs_), _The Bells and Other Poems_ by Poe, inscribed: “Dearest Arthur, To the one who inspired in me my wildest dreams. May these words within inspire you as well.Always, Jean” 

Aha! So Arthur fancied himself as a writer. If he published, perhaps some of his works were on these shelves. He sets the books aside and returns to his perusal of the shelves.

He’s reached the bottom shelf. He knows he’s meant to be at work on the files, but this is far more interesting. He finds a few new treasures. Their inscriptions reveal a bit more about the owner. His last name was Doyle. But it was on the inside cover of two books on spiritualism that Sherlock finally finds some real answers. Arthur was once a doctor, but had quit practicing to lecture about spiritualism. This was a topic Sherlock knew little about.

He picks a few titles off the shelves, two of which were written by Doyle himself. He takes a seat on the settee and begins to read. 

He’s thoroughly engrossed, and it's some hours later before he surfaces from the books. He sighs when he sees the time. He supposes he can easily take some of these books with him, concealed beneath his Belstaff. Time, as Anderson would no doubt say, to punch out.

From what Sherlock has read about spiritualism, he thinks it’s within reason that a person might leave them as a memorial to this man. But why that particular location? On the cab ride home, he ponders why someone would put it in a building that later became New Scotland Yard.

———————————

He doesn’t sleep. Instead, he researches Arthur Conan Doyle. As he had deduced, Doyle was a spiritualist and wrote extensively on that subject. He was friend to a good many well-known people of the time including Harry Houdini, James Barrie, Robert Louis Stevenson, and Oscar Wilde. His critics were also numerous. Even those who once revered him balked at the idea of contacting and speaking to the dead. Sherlock wondered what significance the shrine for Doyle on the seventh-and-a-half floor held. Had they been trying to contact Doyle? He researches his history the night through, then turned to the man’s own words. 

The next day, after a trip to Speedy’s, he thinks over all he has learned in the cab. He doesn’t bother speaking to anyone as he enters the New Scotland Yard. Even if tedious, he must get some of what he’s assigned by his brother and Lestrade done. He begins to go through files in earnest. He finishes part of the second crate, certain he’s done more in his few hours of work than twenty of the Yard’s finest have accomplished in years. He turns his mind back to Doyle and the mystery of the office shrine. 

Abandoning the files, he returns to where he left off yesterday: at the bottom shelf, where it is physical evidence that now catches his attention.

Obscured behind seven large history books is a thin, red leather-bound book. The gold lettering reveals the author’s name: Arthur Conan Doyle! Sherlock pulls it out and reads the title: _Through the Secret Door_. 

Sherlock finds himself spread out on the green settee again. As he turns the pages, he’s surprised at the topic: it describes vividly the books Doyle loved, and why he loved them. Sherlock feels as though he’s found a kindred spirit as he reads the man’s words. But what draws his attention most isn’t this: it’s that the book describes the very settee he is reading from and the very bookcase in this room.

If this is indeed the very settee and the very bookcase Doyle is writing about, could the title itself be literal? Is there also a secret door to go through? 

He jumps up and grabs the settee, pulling it away from the wall. Nothing behind it. Then he feels the walls in the rest of the room, using his hands to distinguish possible hidden doorways. He taps on them. Nothing. That leaves the bookcase. He almost laughs at himself. Is he so bored that he has himself convinced that there is some secret door in this pitiful excuse for an office? He thinks of all the gothic novels he’s read with the cliché of the secret door behind the bookcase. This bookcase is not built into the wall but is too large to move with the books in it. He can see the wall behind the books. 

He inspects the shelves more carefully, moving books about to see. At last, on the bottom where he found the hidden book that started this whole search, he notices something curious. A tiny gap that barely even a sheet of paper could slip between. He taps around the spot. It’s hollow! 

His heart races; he’s glowing as he rapidly removes the books from each shelf with as much care and speed as possible—he needs to pull the bookcase away from the wall. He’s sure now. He can hardly suppress his excitement. He's a boy finding a hidden treasure. He's on his knees, and notices that the three bottom shelves come loose. No need to pull the entire bookcase from the wall. He removes the shelves, then pushes and prods at the wall but nothing opens. Then he remembers a few of the last lines in Doyle’s essay:

 

>  For the time the magic door is still shut. You are still in the land of faerie. But, alas, though you shut that door, you cannot seal it. Still come the ring of bell, the call of telephone, the summons back to the sordid world of work and men and daily strife.

 His mobile doesn’t work here! Why is that? He picks up his cell. No bars. But it’s charged. Bells, bells, bells. He turns up the volume and manually pushes it so that his mobile’s ringer sounds. Nothing opens.

 Sherlock finger taps on settings, and he selects the ringtone “old phone.” The moment the ringtone sounds an audible click comes from the wall. He pushes the door open. It’s dark beyond. Holding up his mobile, he turns it on torch mode and shines it inside. A passageway.

 Sherlock smiles. An adventure! Of course he must crawl through the small, square door.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next week, inside John Watson...what do you think he'll see there?


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here begins Sherlock's journey. He meets John Watson from the inside out.
> 
> Thanks to recentlyfolded who always goes above and beyond to beta my story. Her ideas, editing and suggestions transform a trip inside John's head into a Wonderland.

These didn’t look anything like the walls of the office he’d just left. No, it's a tunnel, a tunnel filled with cobwebs that ends not more than twelve feet in front of him. As he moves, the torchlight on his mobile flashes to reveal a wall with an odd texture. Sherlock reaches out. It’s rough and spongy and warm to the touch. He carefully bags a sample to properly determine its composition later under a microscope.

As he crawls on ahead pushing away cobwebs, the light in his mobile begins to flicker. At a glance, he confirms that the battery charge is still strong. He feels decidedly uneasy, as if he’s expanding—not unlike some of the trips he'd experienced when on acid. He never liked that feeling and preferred the soothing and mind-stilling properties of morphine and heroin. Cocaine was good for a rush when he needed to wake up, but this was a different sensation. He’s not sure why his senses feel compromised. The walls of the tunnel appear to be breathing, contracting and expanding. His senses are confused. The floor feels wet in places. He can taste the salty flicker of light ahead. There must be something inside this place—some substance that’s messing with his mind, not unlike what he experienced in Baskerville. 

He’s surprised that his knees don’t hurt as he moves on. It’s as if his body is numb. Puddles of liquid that he can't avoid are on the floor. Then his mobile's light dies. As he stops to let his eyes adjust, he notices that the light ahead has become brighter and the taste turns to a sweet and salty mix. He puts his mobile in his trouser pocket and continues on.

He’s only moved another foot when he feels a sudden warmth spread through him. At first he thinks it’s heat pulsing from the tunnel, then he realizes it’s inside of him as well. He’s reminded again of his past drug experiences—the warmth that enveloped him after the morphine filled his veins. Yet this is so different. He feels light. Free.

This is surreal, as if he’s in some sort of dreamworld. He can’t think of another time when he has felt so much at peace. Only the sweet circle of light that grows larger and larger. What is this? Is he tripping?

When he sets his hand forward into empty space, his heart skips. In a blink, peace is replaced with panic. He realises why when he first looked through the doorway, the tunnel seemed to end abruptly. It slopes down. The light swells brighter and tastes all the sweeter. Despite the distortions in his perception, he decides that the angle is manageable. As Sherlock begins his descent, he notices too late that the texture of the tunnel has changed. It’s smooth, slippery and...

He begins to slide, picking up speed as he goes. He can’t see for the kaleidoscope of colors and shapes in his vision’s periphery as they fly past him. He knows the light is still there. He tastes it, thick and sweet in the back of his throat.

Face first, he’s being thrust into the unknown, his mind jumbled with foreign thoughts and ideas. His senses blend and overlap. He begins to hear it—a buzzing of bees— just before the light becomes sickly sweet. He can no longer feel anything. Instead, he hears a buzzing outside and inside. His mind is not his own, or he’s sharing space with something or someone outside of him. Is that it? Then he realizes it’s not outside. He is inside.

He opens his mind to look through the eyes of someone else.

“John?” he hears someone say. “John, what’s wrong?”

Then a voice that seems to come from him but that is not his own answers, “I’m not sure. I felt dizzy for a bit. Better now, though.”

Sherlock is no longer experiencing synesthesia, but he's struggling with the realization that this body does not feel like his own. His vision is no longer 20/20. He’s wearing glasses! He’s in the midst of a sensory explosion. He feels every rub and touch of fabric. How disgusting! Polyester. He feels himself shiver. Or no, it’s not his body shivering. It's someone else’s. He’s lying on a cool leather couch. 

“John? Sit up a bit. Drink this,” the woman says. A perfectly-manicured hand presses a tumbler of whiskey to his lips. Another hand reaches up to help tip it up to his mouth. He feels the fingers, the cool touch of the tumbler. It burns going down. It feels...interesting. But not himself. He is not himself. He is…inside?

He is inside someone else.

When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.

John! He can’t believe his bad luck! He lands inside someone else’s body only to find it saddled with the exceedingly dull name of John. The man’s life can't help but be tedious as well.

Tedious or not, all of these new sensations are wholly strange in contrast to how ordinary they are. What place is this? What has he landed into? He tries to make sense of what’s around him. A posh flat. The furniture is too modern for his taste—all chrome and leather, but lived-in. Books, papers, and empty take-away boxes scattered about. A bachelor pad. From the floor-to-ceiling windows, Big Ben looks back at him. At least he’s still in London.

“Is this some sort of brush off?” the voice asks. John's body turns and Sherlock sees her for the first time. She’s about thirty-five, petite and blonde—attractive in a boyish way. Mother. One child, not John’s. The worn jeans hug her thighs, and a v-neck lavender cashmere jumper dips low enough to reveal a bit of cleavage. Her smile is unsure. She steps closer to him and sits on the edge of the couch.

“No, I’m just not myself,” John says.

“Maybe we should go to your bedroom. We have time before our reservations.”

Before Sherlock can further deduce her or this John person, she takes his hand. With a jolt, he feels it! Her hand in his...no...John’s! John’s hand, his hand, one and the same hand. This can’t be real. He's walking across the room, being led by this woman and this John. She pulls them down the hall, opens the door. It’s odd, but as he’s led forward he feels as if he knew the place. And he does. He knew that painting would be on that wall.

She leads them to the bed and then she...Oh-my-God! She kisses them! He feels her lips, thinking, _“Overripe cherries, slippery, red, red, wet, wrong, wrong, WRONG!”_ and it loops over and over in his head. He starts to choke. He feels as if he’s about to vomit, only he’s not the one choking and gagging: it’s John. He’s dizzy from Sherlock’s looping and limping mind.

“What’s wrong?” she asks. Her face fills with concern and confusion as she touches their, no, John’s face.

“Don’t touch me!” John shouts. But no. _That’s me yelling_ , Sherlock realizes. Somehow, he's made John speak. “Sorry, no. I didn’t mean that,” John says. “I don’t know. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I think I need to lie down.”

“Maybe you should. I heard that there was an awful virus going ‘round. Maybe you've got it. Do you want me to send my doctor over to check on you? Maybe I should cancel our reservations.” She sits on the bed next to John.

“Thanks but no. I really don’t want to abuse your personal physician.”

"I did it again, didn't I?" she says. "I can't help it at times. But honestly, John—whatever you might think—you're not taking advantage of me. After all, my being a celebrity should have some advantages, and if I have access to a personal doctor, why shouldn't you too? I wish you'd stop being so proud and accept a few things from me."

"It's not that," he says grudgingly. "It’s probably nothing. I’ve been working under a deadline for weeks. Thank God, I finally turned in that manuscript. Probably just overtired from the pressure of it all. Give me a moment."

Sherlock really wants her to leave. He needs time to think. He’s inside someone else’s head. How can someone think inside another person’s head without the other person’s thoughts getting in the way? What is happening? What has happened? This can’t be real. If it is, how is he going to get back out of this?

What in bloody hell is happening to him?

“Maybe I should stay and take care of you,” she says, reaching over and... Wham! She’s kissing him again. This time with tongue.

“Ack! Gross!” Sherlock blurts out through John’s mouth.

She jumps up off the bed, hurt.

“How old are you? Ten?!” she shouts.

“No! I don’t know why I said that!” John says. “I didn’t mean it.”

“What’s wrong with you?!” she asks.

“What’s wrong with me? I don’t know what’s wrong with me! Something is,” John says. He scrambles off the bed, stopping a few feet away. Sherlock feels confusion mixed with a hint of relief inside John over her departure. “I don’t think I’m well. Maybe you should go,” John adds.

“Maybe I will,” she says.

 _What melodrama_ , Sherlock thinks. John watches her get her coat through the open bedroom door. She’s huffing about loudly and stomping her feet to make sure he understands how upset and put-upon she is. Sherlock deduces that she is most definitely an actress of some sort.

John steps into the bedroom doorway and waves at her weakly, but he doesn’t stop her. Sherlock thinks it’s all too pathetic.

John jumps as she slams the door behind her. While his groan after she leaves indicates that he’s upset, Sherlock distinctly hears John think, “Maybe it’s for the best,” which is an interestingly contradictory insight into his behavior.

Then a flood of thoughts inundates Sherlock’s mind. It’s all about Mary and how she’s pushing too hard for a relationship that he’s not ready for. How he can’t believe he said those things to her. Well, he can believe some of the things, but why in bloody hell did he shout out something as juvenile as “gross” when she kissed him?

It’s hard for Sherlock to think. He can’t seem to access his mind palace at all, which puts him into a panic. That puts John into a panic too. Sherlock’s not sure whether he’s the cause or John is or both. Sherlock doesn’t know. He can know almost anything given the time, but there is no time. He can't think. It's too busy inside this head with other thoughts bumping into his. It's so crowded there's not enough room to have an existential crisis in someone else’s brain.

That’s when Sherlock sees that he’s missing an opportunity to further his knowledge of human behavior.

 _Idiot!_ Sherlock thinks. _I’ve been an idiot! All I have been doing is reacting. Here I have the chance to observe the inner workings of a man’s mind, and I am pissing it away._

Sherlock takes a deep breath and so does John. First, what he knows. He can control what John says, but only if it’s triggered by a strong emotional reaction from Sherlock. He also seems to bleed through to John on some sort of emotional level. When Sherlock felt as if he were going to vomit, John gagged. Sherlock is no longer panicked, now, and either is John.

He is not sure how much John, in his own mind, recognises Sherlock's responses as foreign. Sherlock distinctly recollected thinking of them together as “they.”At this moment, Sherlock can detect John’s confusion. He clearly doesn't understand that someone else’s conscious mind is housed in his. While Sherlock, on the other hand, can’t hear most of John’s thoughts word for word, he can recognize the essence of them. Some are clear; most are abstract.

It’s all coming so fast, he has little time to process. Sherlock wants to further understand the connections to what happened in the office before this. And the tunnel, wherever that actually is. John is clearly tied to this whole puzzle.

He wonders if John realises what he’s thinking. An experiment! He offers a thought to John’s mind: _Look in the mirror_. After all, Sherlock is curious what this John looks like. Sherlock doesn’t know. It’s curious that he can access John’s current senses and thoughts, but memories are more difficult for him to explore, slipping from him like water through open fingers.

He repeats the direction to John, consciously making certain not to suggest he stand or walk. He wants John to do this merely from Sherlock's suggestion. _Look in the mirror_.

He immediately senses John’s confusion. Sherlock distinctly hears John thinking he’s hearing voices.

Then Sherlock prompts him again. But this time, instead of questioning the voice, John walks across his room to his dresser to look in the mirror. Sherlock is shocked at what he sees: He knows this face. _My God! The pop ups!_ This face is in all of those pop ups on that antiquated computer.

Sherlock rattles through his own mind what he recalls of those moments in the office. This John is an author. A best-selling author. He writes detective novels.

Detective novels? _There are no coincidences._

Together they look at the man in the mirror. Sherlock touches his chin, and John touches his. He is handsome—attractive in a rugged way, with a scruffy beard that he scratches with his short nails. His hair is a mix of blond and brown sprinkled with white that John runs his fingers through. This cornucopia of sensations for Sherlock startles John, and he stares at his reflection in the mirror as if he doesn’t recognize himself. John’s clear blue eyes are wide. He blinks, and Sherlock sees the lush, blond-tipped lashes. John moves his head to examine his profile, both left and right.

John shakes his head, then squints into the mirror.

In Sherlock’s heart, he knows this experience should terrify him, but he feels euphoric instead.

John frowns as his stomach rumbles. “So much for those reservations,” John says aloud. _So._ _He talks to himself._ Something the two of them have in common.

John walks him around the flat. Sherlock lets him. It’s a perfect opportunity to observe his surroundings while getting a feel for these unfamiliar limbs. He’s like a puppet being led about and John is pulling his strings. He lets it happen. He keeps his mind quiet. He doesn’t want to make his host think he is entirely losing his mind. There is no way to control this experiment, but he can remove as much bias as possible.

Sherlock does what Sherlock does best: he observes. John has made a comfortable income from his writing, more than oner would expect from his background. He comes from a modest middle class Kilburn family. One sister, not close. Mother and father both dead. Never married, but dated extensively. Oh. Bisexual. Played football in uni. Went to medical school, but then enlisted rather than going into practice. Captain in the army. Carried a weapon, so not just a medic and surgeon. Wounded in action. Soldier. And best-selling author.

John picks up his post. “Bill. Bill. Bill. Junk. Check,” John says. Sherlock sees John’s address. Ahh. And now he has his last name: Watson.

John is hungry. And from his left-over take-away containers and the state of his kitchen pantry, Sherlock can tell that John believes it's important to eat regularly. John takes out a skillet.

As John Watson prepares a simple dinner of toast and beans, Sherlock digests what’s transpired.

If he is stuck here, what will he do? Ethically, he knows he shouldn’t take over another person’s life. While Sherlock inhabiting his body isn’t physically damaging John, Sherlock would be living out John's life in his place—or maybe sharing that life, a symbiotic relationship. Like sharing a flat but far more intimate. He’s never even had a roommate—at least, not one who could stomach living with him for more than two weeks. Sherlock isn’t certain he could take over his host, John, likesome sort of bodysnatcher, even if he wanted to do it. But he couldn't live life passively, a parasite watching the world through another man’s eyes, for long.

He’ll need to wait. Wait and observe. Learn who this John is. Find out what he can learn from the person that John is.

“Why me?” John says aloud.

The man is brilliant! John with the common name is not so common after all. Why John, indeed? Why him out of the eight billion people on earth? Why did Sherlock land inside this particular person?

Then there are the coincidences that are not coincidences. The seventh-and-a-half floor office with the out-of-place furnishings. John just popping up on the computer screen. The title ofArthur Doyle’s book and the portal. Oh, yes, the portal. How was that portal even created? So many questions. Maybe, if worse comes to worse, a lifetime's.

Why him?

But there’s so much interaction. Even now, Sherlock's thought processes interfere with John’s. John may be confused as to what's happening inside his head, but Sherlock is oh-so-aware. John is everywhere, and where is Sherlock Holmes?

Where is Sherlock's actual body? In here with John Watson? Or back in the tunnel? What if someone finds the tunnel and crawls inside? Would they become trapped inside John's head? With Sherlock? Inside Sherlock?

John grabs the counter to steady himself. His heart begins to pump furiously. His breathing increases. He's dizzy and Sherlock is dizzy. And they both gasp.

_What if Anderson followed him?_

Sherlock can imagine no worse torture than to be trapped for life with Anderson's brain. Why... to be in that close of proximity could cause irreparable damage. He could well become a simpleton like Anderson.

Sherlock takes mental deep breaths and so does John.

"I need to eat something," John says, then shakes his head as he plates his dinner, wishing it were the steak and lobster he had planned for tonight. Sherlock doesn’t care, except that then he does. It’s a completely different experience when someone else eats for you.

He never knew food tasted so different to other people, or that beans and toast were this good. John turns on the telly and eats more of the excellent beans. 

Sherlock knows he needs to somehow block off what he’s thinking. He tries to retreat to his mind palace again, but he can’t bring it into his head. Which may have to do with the fact that he’s not _in_ his own head. This time he doesn’t panic. Instead of his palace, he thinks of a wall. 

Of course John hears him. _A Donald Trump wall?_ John thinks. He looks at his beans. And then at the telly. He’s very confused. 

 _No,_ Sherlock thinks, _a wall to a room. With plaster and wallpaper._

John blinks rapidly, trying to refocus his thoughts. The telly seems to start a visual association in John much akin to his visualization of deductive associations. Images and events on the screen become paired with John’s memories of life events and daily activities. Flashes of his sister standing on a beach splash him with the taste of saltwater; Mary playfully hits him with a pillow; a glittery young man dances with the lights and sounds of disco surrounding him. His brain quiets. John's mental exhaustion falls away between bites of toast and watching some show called Broadchurch. John closes his eyes, relaxes, and a white noise takes its place. Sherlock wonders if that’s what happens to normal people when they watch too much telly.

Finally, Sherlock is able to think without it echoing in John’s mind. He hopes his dreams don’t…

A flash and he’s tumbling, tumbling down then falling, falling in a dream. He wonders if this isn’t a part of John’s dreams, but it’s too soon for REM sleep. He suddenly sees the ground below him and lands hard, rolling down a soggy, refuse-strewn slope into a ditch running onto the banks of the Thames.

He’s still lying in the mud when he begins slapping his chest like a madman. He’s so ecstatic to be inside ONLY himself again that he shouts it to the London he loves, spitting mud from his mouth, shouting “God! These are MY taste buds!” and revelling in the idea that he’s one of the few people who knows what the mud near the Thames actually tastes like.

He holds his hands up in front of his eyes and wiggles and flaps them. He's certain that if anyone spied him at this moment, they’d think he’s daft. He’s especially happy that Mycroft is with Mummy and not spying on him via CCTV.

He continues to stare at his hands as if they’re a miracle; he opens and closes them, kisses them, spits more mud out of his mouth in the process. He’s covered in the greasy stuff from head to toe and his shirt is ruined, but he doesn’t care. He climbs up off the ground, up the bank, falling and getting up more than once. It’s dark and slick and he slips and slides, laughing all the while. He feels insanely giddy.

His first thought is to return to the portal to secure it, but he’s not sure exactly how he’d be received at Scotland Yard in the state he’s in. From the dust in the room, he knows that housekeeping rarely touches it.

John Watson. How marvelous! He was inside someone else. He wishes he’d spent more time rummaging through the inner workings of his mind, to find out more about him.

He pulls his mobile from his pocket. No missed texts. No missed calls. Nothing from Mycroft. He wants to keep this from him. It’s something Sherlock wants to savour, to examine on his own.

Although he hasn’t checked out at the station, he doesn’t think it will raise any eyebrows. He never follows procedure and no one expects him to. He very much doubts anyone wants to come see how he’s doing on the seventh-and-a-half floor since most of them are simply relieved that he’s not working anywhere near them. Sherlock is more than happy about that now that he’s found a secret doorway into another man’s head.

He’s already decided to go back inside...

Mud clings and drips down his shirt and slides along his trousers into his shoes. He shakes his foot about as he hails a taxi. The cold is beginning to seep into his bones. Cabs slow then pass as they see the lunatic hailing them is covered in mud. Even when he gets one to stop, the driver frowns and speeds off just as Sherlock reaches for the door handle.

When the next cab stops, Sherlock makes sure he’s faster. He flings the door open, jumps in, and slams the door.

The driver turns around and shakes his head. “What are you covered in?!”

“I believe it’s the Thames. Or, more precisely, the closest bank of it.”

“You can’t get into my cab like that! Look what you’ve done to my seats. Get out!”

“It’s only mud and silt. A bit unsanitary, I agree. I did ingest some of it, so possibly antibiotics are...” Sherlocks says.

“I remember you! You were that bloke all covered in blood with the harpoon! Get out of my cab you crazy bastard!” yells the driver.

“It was merely pig's blood. For an experiment.” Sherlock throws the driver double what the fare would cost him to 221B, which he hopes will appease him.

“It's gonna take me hours to clean all that up.” The driver holds out his hand over the seat.

That’s an exaggeration, but Sherlock slaps the rest of the contents of his wallet into the driver’s palm. He’s in no mood to be taking the Tube tonight. The driver grumbles but silently agrees.

“At least turn off that incessant rap music,” Sherlock asks.

“It’s me hip hop.”

“I don’t care if it’s Peter Rabbit come to Teddy Bear's garden. Turn that noise off!” At least Sherlock gets that from him. 

The rest of the ride to 221B is thankfully uneventful, giving Sherlock time to go into his mind palace and catalog everything that happened during his time inside John Watson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoped you enjoyed Sherlock's maiden voyage inside John Watson. 
> 
> What do you think our genius of a detective will do next? What will he do again inside our John's head? Keep in mind this story is not complete, and I'd love to include readers' ideas into Sherlock's future adventures inside and outside the Wonderland of John Watson.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock takes a hot, glorious shower, puts on his favorite blue dressing gown, settles down to a steaming hot cup of tea, and boots up his laptop. He should be hungry, but he’s not. Besides, it’s too late to ask Mrs. Hudson to prepare some food, and he really doesn’t want her upset with him again. 

He stretches his arms leisurely above his head, then slowly lowers them until he's flexing his fingers in front of the keys. Time to learn more about this John Hamish Watson. The search is too easy—the man’s biography is splashed all over the Internet like a bucket of red paint. Reading his bios, interviews, and author's blog, Sherlock immediately recognizes a pattern. There’s very little about Watson's personal life. Oh, he has plenty to say about his fans and his hobbies, but he keeps what's private close to his chest. His bisexuality is only mentioned in a single _Rolling Stone_ interview, and then only when the question was pointedly asked. His family and friends are rarely mentioned; it's all just the usual PR fluff. 

Most of the material available is story reviews or interviews about his books and the writing process. Sherlock rolls his eyes as he skims Watson's Twitter account. It's loaded with snippets of selfies with fans and what Watson calls "my daily inspirations." His Facebook page is a joke, obviously created and updated by someone from his publishing company. 

While Watson comes off in his blog and on his bios as the “accessible boy next door” type, his background as a doctor and army captain proves he is anything but. 

In an interview with _The New Yorker_ , Watson states that the hardest drug he ever took was an occasional hit off a joint with a mate. He's side-stepped questions on how he was decorated for his service in Afghanistan, stating that the shot to his shoulder ended his medical career and began his writing. He speaks very little about his family, saying: “I had a troubled family life. It’s not something I like to talk about.” The photos included in the spread were candid shots of Watson in his quaint country home. In Sussex of all places! Sherlock snorts. It’s not the flat that Sherlock saw through Watson’s eyes, but that’s not a serious concern since he states in this article that he also has a flat in London. 

The best source by far is Watson's personal WordPress writer's blog where he answers fan questions and interacts with a chosen few, but even that is for the most part tedious everyday encounters such as fights with chip and pin machine or trite questions at book signings. He rarely reveals more.

 And Sherlock needs more. 

Making use of Mycroft’s access, he digs deeper into Watson’s personal and military records, although the risk of raising Mycroft’s suspicions means he doesn't dare access most of them. Sherlock lifts his eyebrow in interest. Ahh, John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, you are a complex man. Three years in Afghanistan, veteran of Kandahar and Helmand, he was shot while saving a man in his unit who died on the field. While the gunshot wound ended his career in the army, the nasty infection from it was what sealed his fate as a surgeon. He was honorably discharged and practised family medicine for a time before publishing his first successful novel. 

Impressing others is not for him. In this area, Sherlock identifies with Watson. Sherlock has never cared a bit about the press and neither does Watson. Sherlock avoids parties or performances in front of the camera. He’d rather solve crimes. Watson writes and keeps to himself. The photos Sherlock does find are either PR shots or candids with fans—book signings, fan selfies with their favorite author. Very few celebrity party photos. Sherlock finds one photo of John with Mary Morstan, that actress he was with. 

Sherlock looks further for evidence of them together and only finds a few mentions in tabloids of the two of them dating. Then he discovers an interview with Morstan where she calls Watson "adorable" and "ruggedly attractive." 

 _Attractive? Yes._ Sherlock remembers his mirror examination of those keen blue eyes, soft, sandy hair, and a striking clean-shaven chin.

Not that Sherlock is ever interested in that sort of thing. 

He leaps up and paces the room, stopping in front of the fireplace. 

Digging back further into Watson's personal blog, Sherlock learns that Watson has friends and seems to keep them, something Sherlock has never understood. How is that done? Watson has friends he grew up with, friends he went to uni with, friends he knows from his literary circles, as well as a few celebrity friends he's become close to from movies that have been made from his books. Watson reveals few real details about those friends, however. Sherlock first interpreted this as reticence on Watson's part, but it's clear enough now, even with his limited social skills, that there is an intentional distancing in describing these friendships. He deduces that Watson is a friend to many, but a close friend to few. 

The puzzle that is John Watson. 

“Who is this man? Why was I drawn inside _him_?” he says. His friend on the mantel smiles at him, mockingly. "You should know. You may be only a skull, but you once thought and felt. And, presumably, did so without any wandering strangers fetching up inside your head. Alas, poor, Yorick! I never knew you well. Not at all, actually. If only your consciousness were still somehow here, floating around the room as that Doyle fellow thought, perhaps you could show me how it works.” His only friend's empty eye sockets return no answer.

Sherlock spins around in a circle. Facing his friend on the mantelpiece again, he thrust his finger at its forehead. “What forces are in play?” Sherlock rants. “What I've experienced is clearly not some kind of illusion. No psychotropic drugs I've ever used have come close to doing something this profound. Nothing I know could propel my body physically from that office, then make it reappear miles away next to the Thames. Which doesn’t even begin to touch on my experience inside Watson.” 

He throws himself back on the couch and returns to his research. This time he's googling ”out-of-body experiences.” Notions, fantasies—that's what he's thought of it until now. As he reads, he finds some potentially applicable data, such as MRI’s taken during these purported experiences that show unusual brain activity in the visual cortex on the left side of the brain—the same areas associated with kinesthetic imagery. Nothing remotely close, however, to transferring one person's consciousness inside another’s. 

What he'd experienced was not merely a kinesthetic neurological phenomenon. This was a real transfer of consciousness. He knows it, but needs understand the underlying process. Sherlock weighs the risks. If he does indeed go back, the possibility exists that he will be unable to return to his body the next time. He has no idea how he got out—if indeed some portion of his mind was actually within Watson’s. It can't have simply been a matter of random luck. John had been beginning to fall into REM sleep. It’s possible that could have triggered it. Or maybe there is some limit to the amount of time this link, if it is a link, can be maintained. Sherlock has little useful data so far, but with repeated trips, he would likely learn more. He weighs the risk of a lifetime inside Watson against the reward of a lifetime: knowledge. Knowledge wins. 

Sherlock is aware that there are enormous moral implications that he’s choosing to brush aside—that justifying it in the name of science is simply sidestepping the problem. It’s something even he admits that he shouldn’t do for so, so many reasons. It’s as if he’s become Victor Frankenstein, tampering with Nature in ways no man ever should. And yet he must have answers. 

He stands up on the couch to bound back and forth on top of it. What happened to him was the single most thrilling adventure of his life. It could prove consciousness exists outside of one’s body. Or it might not. It might simply be wishful thinking imposed upon some sort of fugue state brought on by the tedium of his "job" at New Scotland Yard. 

Sherlock halts in the center of the couch, then jumps down. What he wants to know won't be found in internet searches. 

Tomorrow he’s going back. Back to the office to try again. Back to John Watson. 

He’d do it now, but showing up this early to his menial job at the Yard, on a Saturday no less, might make people suspicious. A few minutes early will raise no questions. He’ll secure the portal and see if…

He paces the room. He's done this for so long and so often that Mrs. Hudson has complained he's worn a path in the rug. He needs to confirm that he was actually inside John Watson. To do that, he needs to speak with the subject directly. 

He decides to continue his investigation with what he has on hand. He dashes into his bedroom and retrieves from his dirty trousers the sample he'd taken from the wall of the tunnel. Sherlock carefully prepares the slide and sits in front of his microscope. As he adjusts the focus, he’s holding his breath. His heart pounds as he realizes what he’s seeing through the ocular. Cells! How is it possible that the walls of tunnel are made of living cellular tissue? Sherlock looks again and swallows hard. This is astonishing. Not just any living thing. They are complex animal cells, maybe human. But if so, not any human cells that he’s ever seen. 

He decides to take a chance. Molly. She has access to advanced staining and imaging techniques that could at least confirm these are human...or something. If not her, someone at Barts. He just can’t reveal how he got the sample, or there might be too many questions. But he needs to know this much if he is to understand what happened to him.

 

————————— 

Before he leaves his flat, he texts Molly to expect him. There's a vendor on the corner, where he buys the current issue of _The Sun_ with a review of John Watson’s latest novel. He hails a cab and ignores the driver by reading the review.

He’s not sure what he plans to tell Molly about the sample until he’s standing with the cold steel lab table between them. 

“That’s new,” she says, pointing at his leather jacket. "Where's your big swishy overcoat?" 

“At the cleaners. Long story,” he says. 

“Scarf too?” 

“Yes. One of the more bizarre cases I’ve ever been on,” Sherlock says to her. Although it’s off the cuff, he never ceases to impress himself with his false sincerity and quick improvisation. Ironically, that part is not a lie—although the rest is. 

Sherlock pulls the evidence bag from his pocket and tosses it on the table between them. 

“I’m sure there’s a long story there that’ll you’ll never tell me,” Molly says picking up the baggie and looking at its contents just as Mike Stamford walks in. He's carrying two cups of coffee from the canteen. 

“So, where did this sample come from?” Molly asks. 

“Morning,” Mike says, setting a coffee on the lab table. “You’re here early, Sherlock. A new case?” 

“Missing person," Sherlock acknowledges. "Most likely fratricide, but the son and daughter claim the father was abducted by aliens, and this is their proof.” Sherlock points to the baggie Molly tangles in front of her. “Alien DNA.”He raises his arms dramatically and huffs out a sardonic laugh. 

“That’s why you had your coat cleaned?” Molly asks. Sherlock rolls his eyes. 

Surprisingly, the idea came from an actual case Sherlock had not two months ago. Three of his homeless network came to him, believing aliens were abducting their mates. In reality, members from a notorious drug cartel were kidnapping homeless men off the streets and testing the purity of their heroin on the poor souls, disposing of their bodies in a Luton crematorium. 

“Alien abductions? Who are you now, Fox Mulder?” she smiles. “Next you’ll be calling me Scully and telling me the truth is out there.” 

“I’m sure that’s some reference to popular culture I have neither the time nor inclination to know about.” 

“They’re characters from an American telly show,” Mike says, helping him. “The X-Files.” 

“Since I don’t watch British telly, why would I further punish myself by watching American?” 

“From your reading material, I suspect you know a bit more than you’re letting on,” Mike says, pointing the paper tucked under his arm. “Since when did you start reading _The Sun_?” 

“There’s a review in it of a detective novel I have an interest in reading. I read online that this particular author's plots are not as predictable as most and he writes with a certain dash of realism. His name is John Watson.” 

“ _Death Comes for Us All_! I just finished his new book,” Mike says. “You can borrow mine if you like.” 

“Thank you,” Sherlock blinks. 

“I know a bit about the author, actually,” Mike says. “Believe it or not he’s an old mate of mine. We were at uni together. He was a doctor before, you know. Worked here as a surgeon for a time. He’s a stand-up guy. He keeps pretty much to himself now, but he does have a few author and actor friends. John Green, JK Rowling, Simon Pegg. I got to meet Douglas Adams once at his home in Sussex.” 

“I have no idea who any of those people are,” Sherlock says, pretending indifference. Popular modern fiction is filled with talentless, pretentious prats. 

 _He can’t believe his good fortune!_  

“Funny you should be reading his book,” Mike says. “I wouldn’t think you’d be interested. Actually, when I told John once that I knew you, he said he’d like to meet you someday—being a detective writer and all and you, well, being one.” 

“A consulting detective.” Sherlock corrects him. He doesn’t want to seem overly anxious. “I generally have no interest in such things, but it could come in handy should I ever need to solve a case involving popular fiction writers. Perhaps as a favor to you I might be willing to meet him...” 

“I know all about your favors. For some reason, you always seem to want them returned—with interest.” 

“Ahh. And here I have this specimen that needs to be identified… While I’d prefer to stay and help you ordinary people with it, I can’t today. Do let me know what you learn. I’m off to serve my sentence.” 

He knows she’ll have questions when she looks at that sample. Mike too, if she brings him in on it. Better to invent a story that seems impossible (not that his is real story is any more plausible). He’s certain she will be more than a little confused by the results. In the end, he’s also certain that he will think of something to tell Molly that will make this all seem perfectly logical. 

Molly flashes a crooked smile. “You must have been really bored to take this case.” 

“You have no idea.” 

 

———————————-

When he arrives at the Yard, people do what they usually do around him: they scatter. A relief. He’s not forced to listen to insipid drivel as he rides up in the elevator to the seventh-and-a-half floor. The office is as he left it. The books are stacked neatly next to the case, lower shelves pulled out and set aside. Except...the passageway door is closed. He’s not too surprised. After all it’s what one might expect from a living tunnel to another man’s mind. He removes the black leather jacket and sets it on top of his Belstaff. 

He still resents Lestrade and Mycroft a bit as he crouches down to take his seat at the desk. He sighs. Turns on the crotchety old computer. He supposes it’s not too much to suffer in exchange for an open doorway to someone’s mind. 

He's sure the door will open for him again, ready for Sherlock to crawl through the most intriguing puzzle he's ever been presented with. He’s going to do it, but first he needs to work on some of these mind-numbing case files. Usually he’s all for going once more into the breach without a second thought, but he doesn’t dare present any reason for Mycroft to come sniffing. 

He wallows through a stack of files and fills in the formatted blanks before he decides he’s had enough of people who spit in the face of evolution. He goes to John Watson’s blog and rereads his last entry. It’s about how he gets up early to write every morning, but tomorrow he has a meeting with a friend for coffee so he won’t be able to put in much time on his new book, which, he teases, is a departure from his other novels. 

Sherlock makes an account and uses his own blog’s username, thescienceofdeduction, to leave a comment. 

He pulls out his mobile, selects the correct old-fashioned ringtone, and hears the click of the door. 

He raises his eyes to the bookcase and grins. He's filled with giddy, nervous excitement as he gets up from behind the accursed desk and walks toward the bookcase. His heart pounds. He kneels down and with his fingers pries the door open as he did once before. The entrance looks the same. He sits, legs crossed, in front of the door, staring in. He takes deep, calming breaths, then presses his steepled his fingers to his mouth. 

He’s not sure if it’s even possible to determine how his actual body is transported into the mud of the Thames. After the incident, he was wearing exactly what he had on before he entered Watson’s mind. That part happened. Even if he is unable to explain precisely how. 

There is so much he doesn’t understand. He should have expanded his research into the human brain and self-awareness. He knows more than most doctors regarding the physiology of cognition and knows that what happened is impossible from that standpoint. He wonders how his consciousness could possibly travel from his mind to John’s, and where inside John’s mind he was...housed? Did he reside in a specific lobe, or was his consciousness spread throughout? He thinks not, just as he knows that he’s not limited to just one portion of the brain. The cerebrum controls higher functions such as touch and speech yet he triggered it with the most primitive part of the brain. Does that mean he’s essentially become a cognitive chimera? 

Before he goes inside again, he needs to plan this more thoroughly and set measurable objectives. If he is to abide by the scientific method, then he is required to develop a hypothesis upon which he can base his expectations and the tests to demonstrate them.

 _Simply speaking_ , Sherlock posits aloud, _is my consciousness inside of the person called John Watson? My hypothesis: That I am indeed able to influence physical activity on the part of one John Watson without being present in his company and that I can demonstrate this with externally-verifiable effect. I postulate that when Watson writes his weekly blog post at approximately two this afternoon,I will be able to insert my words into said blog, therefore demonstrating that I am correct._  

This would not, however, prove his actual presence inside Watson's brain, but is the first step in validating that supposition through his ability to affect Watson's actions.

Before Sherlock crawls inside, he puts on his Belstaff. If he ends up somewhere in a gutter again, at least he’ll be warm. He doesn’t use the torch on his mobile this time, knowing he can crawl toward the light. As he slowly continues into the tunnel, each movement forward increases the synesthetic sensations he experienced before, increasing his heart rate and breathing in anticipation. His senses become awash in a carnival of responses. He prepares himself mentally for the slide down the tunnel into the mind of John Watson.

  _How does one prepare to go into the mind of another?_ he wonders. The buzzing and bumping begin again, tickling and teasing his nerves down to his very atoms. Laughter bubbles up inside him and breaks free. Once it starts, he can’t stop it; his body convulses into laughing fits. He loses his grasp on the tunnel entirely and begins the slide down, down, laughing all the way. It’s a rush—better than cocaine. 

He meets John Watson’s mind laughing, and Watson takes over.

“It’s happening again!” Watson says, hiccuping back laughter. “Just like yesterday when I kept doing things I never meant to. Jesus! It’s like nothing I’ve ever felt before. I think I’m going crazy.” 

He sees through Watson’s eyes that he’s not in the flat. By the scents and sounds, Sherlock immediately knows he’s at a coffee house—one that Sherlock doesn’t recognize. Watson is also sitting across from a man who is vaguely familiar to Sherlock, most probably a person of some renown.  

Sherlock clears his mind, and Watson rubs his hands over his face.

“Maybe it’s like I told you—some sort of midlife crisis,” the man across from him says, leaning forward in his seat. “Easy fix. Go out, get laid, buy a Jag.” 

“It’s not a midlife crisis,” Watson says. “And I’m not disenchanted with my life. Not most of it anyway. I don’t need a fling with some hot twenty year old or a new circle of friends…” 

“Oi! I hope not.” 

Watson looks down at the table, and Sherlock reads “Leto’s” on the napkin.

“And last I knew, Simon,” Watson says, leaning forward closer to his friend and continuing in a hushed voice, “I didn’t think a midlife crisis entailed feeling like your body has been hijacked by someone else.” 

Sherlock decides some additional piece of physical evidence may be useful in case something goes awry with the blog post. 

“It’s as if someone else was just laughing for me. And the other day with Mary, talking out of my mouth.” 

“That’s a trick. How do you feel now? You seem yourself.” 

Sherlock feels his hands, er, Watson’s hands, pat Watson’s ugly oatmeal jumper. It’s alarming in that it feels as though Watson’s hands are patting Sherlock's own chest.  

“I feel wrong,” Watson says. “Like these are my hands but not.” 

Sherlock understands completely. He feels the same. 

“You and Mary didn’t smoke one before?” this friend, Simon, says.

“No! I haven’t done that since you and I had our last ‘wake up, bake up’ weekend. I swore after that…” 

“I only brought it up, because maybe it’s some kind of flashback.” 

“I don’t think...could it?”

“It was pretty good shit.” 

“You did puke.” 

“I puked from that rotgut Russian vodka you gave me. What’s that got to do with flashbacks?” 

“I read that it happens. Sadly, it’s never happened to me.” 

“Besides, that was over six months ago,” Watson says. “I don’t think so.”

 Watson picks up his coffee cup. Takes a gulp. Alert! Chai latte! Taste bud trigger! Ack! Sherlock spits it out all over Watson’s oatmeal jumper and the table. He grabs the napkin in front of them and scrapes the napkin across his tongue like he’s removing varnish from wood.  

“That’s atrocious!” Sherlock chokes. _Fuck! He did that!_

 “Definitely midlife crisis, mate,” Simon says. 

John jumps up. “That wasn’t me.” 

Sherlock notes they’re drawing a lot of attention from other customers. A couple of uni students near them are pointing and talking. 

“I don’t like that crap you drink either. About time you woke up.” Simon points to Watson’s chair. “Sit back down.” 

“I’m not…” Watson stops. He’s gulping for air. 

 _In control._ Sherlock finishes his words for him. He feels the same way. Again. He's got to pull himself together. He doesn’t want this Watson to section himself; he just wants to know the truth. Sherlock tries to force his mind and body back behind the wall he made the last time he was in this body. Maybe something else. Another metaphor. He thinks of a warm blanket. Mrs. Hudson’s crocheted quilt. He wraps himself up tight inside. No more interfering until two o’clock! 

Watson sits back into his chair. 

“Okay, that _was_ odd,” Simon says. “So, not a flashback. Have you been taking any new meds? What about that accident you had? I know you said it wasn’t much, but those airbags can knock your head around. Maybe that’s it?” 

“I did get checked at hospital. No concussion, but still, it might explain this...” John waves his hands about vaguely. "This feeling that I'm a puppet on a string thing." 

“There you are. I’ve already come up with two reasonable explanations in the matter of minutes.” 

“But I love Chai tea.” 

“Yeah, and I love Buffy the Vampire Slayer, but you don’t see me driving stakes through people’s hearts,” Simon says. 

“At least not in real life. Wait...you didn’t get the part,” John says. “I am the biggest arse. God, Simon, why didn’t you stop me! Here I am going on about my problems and I never asked.” 

“Yer right, you big tosser. You should have done, but it seems you’ve got a problem and when one of my best mates has a problem, I listen.” 

“Ta, I’m listening now. So, want to talk about?” 

“Not much. I didn’t get the part. It happens all the time no matter how bad we want it. Tobey Maguire got it.” 

“You’ve got to be kidding.” 

“No. I’m not.” 

“I still think you’d make the best vampire hunter. Sod them all. You’d have been great driving stakes and flinging garlic around. Their loss.” 

“And I still think you need a good shag.” 

He winks at Watson. It makes Sherlock a bit uneasy. Like Molly’s flirting with him again. 

“John, don’t look up. Some fans have noticed us. They’re coming over.” 

Sherlock sees them because John does look up to see two young men approaching them. Uni students, liberal arts, a bit of old money but blending in by wearing worn Levis, walk of shame t-shirts, and vintage jackets. Watson smiles—no beams—back. _They’re cute_ , John thinks. Sherlock already knows what’s going to happen. It’s the proof that Sherlock needs, and it’s happening without his interference. Or too much. 

“Hello, I’m Peter and this is Michael.” They hold out their hands, and Watson stands and shakes their hands, kicking Simon’s chair. Simon grudgingly stands and shakes their hands too. “We’re both big fans of yours. We were wondering…” the taller of the two says.

 “Of course!” Watson says. The uni students already have their mobiles ready and John takes his from his trousers, too. They all take turns with selfies. They exchange a few more pleasantries (most of it sniveling fan-gushing), then wave goodbye and leave Watson and Simon to themselves. 

Watson doesn’t put away his mobile. Instead he tweets the selfies, each with heads smashed together with thumbs up, Watson, Michael, and Peter. 

“I left you out of it, unless you want me to post the photo with you, too.”

“Oh, go ahead. Might as well give the ladies a treat." He waggles his eyebrows leeringly. "But sometimes you’re too bloody friendly for your own good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What famous author or writer would you like John to rub elbows with or include in the story? Who do you want Sherlock to cringe at when they meet? Leave me a note here or comment at end of story, and I'll see what I can come up with.


	5. Chapter 5

Watson’s not good at catching a cab. Sherlock did better at hailing one with half of the mud of the banks of the Thames on him. He briefly considers helping the poor bastard but decides to keep Mrs. Hudson’s metaphorical quilt wrapped around to muffle any of his own influence.

Only when Watson puts his fingers to lips and blows out an ear-splitting whistle does a black cab stop.

Watson jumps inside and immediately begins a conversation with the cab driver. What a waste of mental power. More shocking, Watson sincerely enjoys interacting with the cabbie about nothing in particular.

“Traffic’s a bitch today,” Watson observes.

“I’ll say. It’s more congested than a pea-souper,” the cabby answers.

“Thanks for picking me up.”

“It’s me job,” the driver smiles. Sherlock is confused. What is this? This cabbie isn’t feigning sincerity like cabbies always do with him. No driver has even spoken this congenially to him. What skill does this Watson possess that he does not?

“I'll bet you’ve seen it all,” Watson says.

Sherlock thinks that’s improbable, even if the man drives more than fifty hours per week.

“Ay, mate; I sure have! Not two weeks ago some crazy bloke tried to get into me cab covered in blood with a harpoon in his hand. I let all me mates know he was about, but not before he insulted me mother. What a wanker.”

“Really? Sounds exciting. A man covered in blood. Imagine that.”

_So this Watson thinks what he did was exciting? Brilliant! If only he'd been the one driving the cab that night, not_ _this cabbie whose snub forced him to ride the Tube. It was a sad ending to a perfectly-executed experiment. What a drab life this driver leads. Leaving Liverpool to drive a cab. Forty-two years old and living with his mother-in-law along with his three mediocre children and a nagging wife who works in the kitchen at school._

The only bright spot Sherlock sees in this driver’s dismal existence are his children's pets: a black labrador retriever and an orange tabby cat. At least he doesn’t have to pick them up daily at daycare.

Next, he’s forced to listen to Watson verbally extract all the information Sherlock just deduced. Tedious. Worse, he can't tune it out.

“I bet you've seen some changes over the last years,” Watson says.

_Oh, please no..._

“That I have.”

Sherlock does a mental eye roll.

“How many years?” Watson asks.

“Sixteen this December. Mind if I turn on some music?”

“I’d like that.”

No driver _ever_ asked Sherlock if he’d like music on. They played it, then refused to turn it off. Sherlock's worst experience was a cab ride from Heathrow. After returning from a particularly taxing case in Paris, he was forced to listen to some band called Chili Peppers for twenty-three minutes. The caterwauling sounded like a man cursing with a spoon shoved up his rectum.

“Excellent taste. I love Marvin Gaye,” Watson says, sitting forward in the seat. “This is from my favorite album of his. The man was a bloody genius.”

“I love ‘What’s Going On.’ They just don’t make ‘em like Marvin anymore.” Then the driver winks at Watson in the rearview mirror. If Sherlock didn't know better, he'd think the man was flirting with Watson. He couldn't be, could he?

Watson nods, then winks back. It's one surprise after another with Watson. He's humming to the music too. Sherlock surmises Marvin must be the man who’s singing. His voice is deep and soulful. The song “Mercy, Mercy Me” is surprisingly tolerable.

They listen to the music, John continues to hum, and the driver gives no indication that he knows (or cares) who his fare is. Sherlock is content that Watson has taken to counting the cars going by and stopped flirting with the driver.

Watson gives the cabbie a generous tip and watches the car drive off before he stares up at the building that houses his flat. It’s an older building that’s been remodeled from within. Sherlock notes as they enter that per usual, security is adequate but easily thwarted.

Watson takes the elevator, then gets off on the seventh floor. He immediately greets a silver-haired woman with a poodle on a pink leash. Sherlock feels for the dog, sculpted like shrubbery with pink bows in her ears.

“Good morning, Miss White.” The dog jumps on Watson’s leg. “How are you and Miss Bubbles today?”

“We’re well. Quite well, thank you. We're taking our morning walk to meet the grandchildren.”

Watson kneels down and scratches Bubbles behind the ears.

 _Cheap, inferior fabric choice for ribbons._ Sherlock thinks. _No wonder she’s uncomfortable. She's soft; she deserves satin!_ The tactile input of Miss Bubbles' soft curls prompts Sherlock to make their fingers scratch longer than John had intended, and Watson pulls his hand back as if stung.

“Have a nice walk, Miss White.”

Watson watches her go, then glances around and rubs his chin in confusion. _There it is again_ , Watson thinks.

He unlocks the door to his flat and walks straight into the kitchen where he starts tea.

Sherlock wants to chant, “Not chai, not chai,” but refrains. He's relieved when Watson opens the cupboard to a box of Darjeeling. _Passable._

Watson looks at his watch. Almost noon. 

Like water washing over him, Sherlock lets it all happen. John Watson makes toast (butters it, but not enough), pours the tea (no sugar), walks to his desk (hesitates), sets the tea and toast down, pulls out the chair, and sits down. Sherlock feels it all, with every molecule, every atom. He’s most surprised to find that he likes it. He likes being inside John Watson.

He decides that it's the ultimate experience for the lazy man. No need to think about lifting a finger; it’s done for him.

He smiles somewhere inside Watson. Somewhere. He is mildly annoyed that he still has no clear understanding of where. He just is there.

Watson turns on his laptop and begins to write. No password. At first Sherlock can’t detect what Watson is writing, then he hears the mumblings and rumblings in the man’s mind. He's digging around, looking for ideas. _Ahh. The creative process. This could prove most educational,_

Sherlock allows himself to try to see more precisely what the man thinks, but most of the thoughts elude him. He can logically put some of what he's thinking about together through deduction. He gets snippets of words, images, scents: the smell of a campfire, the sting of a sunburn, and the whipping punishment of blasting sand. Sand everywhere. Heat. Oppressive heat.

_Ahh, Afghanistan._

Sherlock realizes he’s not writing his usual whodunit. _Is this some sort of memoir?_ Sherlock thinks, watching the screen with Watson. _No._

He skims through as Watson makes minor edits to some pages. It’s fiction. But about the war. Watson's experiences. Semi-biographical then. Watson stops and begins typing in earnest. He's not fast at it but steady. Sherlock reads the words as they pour from Watson’s head:

> I did my sad duty that night. I wrote home to the parents of the boy. They had lost, and we had lost, a fearless and savvy soldier. We knew him as one who took on far too many dangerous roles. He was always the first to dismantle IEDs or rush into ambushes without a care to his safety. It was his duty, he said. He never once complained. I gave my usual condolences to the parents in my letter. About bravery and sacrifice. Always with that unwritten apology underneath—that I didn’t do enough. That I, as a doctor, couldn’t keep his heart from stopping. Instead I wrote: at the end, I was there to hold his hand.

Sherlock reads, his mind stilled in wonder as Watson tells his story. Sherlock is enraptured. Is he beginning to understand who Watson is?

Then Watson looks at his watch. It’s nearly two. He minimizes the screen and opens his blog. He begins to write something neutral—exactly what Sherlock thought he’d write today in his blog. Tea at “a local coffee house” with Simon and his chance meeting with his new uni selfie buddies.

It’s what Watson writes next that surprises. A bit of reminiscing about his own time at uni, his own version of meeting a famous person in a coffee shop. _Then,_ he writes, _we didn’t take selfies. I did get an autograph. It’s framed and hangs in my living room._ At that moment, Watson looks up at the wall, and Sherlock sees a framed arrangement of a album cover along with a signed napkin. He can’t make out the signature, but top and center on the cover in all caps the title shouts out: WHO ARE YOU.

Watson then writes about meeting Townshend years later at a fundraiser and talking about his music and writing. _Life changes your perspectives and the people you admire become less and less untouchable and more and more human. For Townshend it was meeting Bill Haley._ After meeting Townshend, Watson realized than even though in many ways he was still just as star struck years later, his own notoriety tempered his reactions.

Sherlock is so engrossed in Watson’s process of writing that he almost forgets to insert his own words into the blog. He throws off Mrs. Hudson’s quilt and flexes his mind fingers. Something simple. Something Watson won’t delete.

Easy. He suggests that John scroll down to the comments from yesterday’s post. John does so. He doesn’t seem upset or surprised by the suggestion. He reads the comments and hovers over the one from thescienceofdeduction: _This is incredibly tedious. Do you ever do anything other than have tea with superficial celebrities and sit behind a stuffy desk and write? What next, the weather? Go out and experience life. Solve a real mystery or at least find someone to play Cluedo with._

Sherlock feels a pang of regret at the words, yet they have the desired effect. After all, it's the results that are important.

Watson clicks respond to comment and begins typing: _Who do you think you are insulting my friends? They aren’t superficial celebrities. At least use a real name instead of hiding behind some pseudo-intellectual username. I suppose you have the more exciting life. Want a mystery? Deduce this!_ John hovers and decides not to stoop to that person’s level and back spaces, deleting: _Want a mystery? Deduce this!_

_My turn!_ Sherlock thinks. He focuses on his/John’s hands. He types: _If your life is so interesting, why don’t you write about it in your own blog?_ He clicks enter. What a rush.

Swirls and whirls. He's falling again and lands in the same gutter near the Thames. At least he's somewhat prepared this time, although his Belstaff isn't spared the mud. He's dripping with it. Now he really will need to have it cleaned. This time though, it's still mid-day and once he takes off his muddy coat, he has far less trouble hailing a cab.

\---------------------

 

After dropping his coat off at a nearby cleaner's, he returns to New Scotland Yard and his seventh-and-a-half floor office. He takes the elevator without too many hostile stares pointed his way. As far as they know, he had gone for an extended lunch. His office is undisturbed, and he's confident no one has bothered to look for him there.

What an experience. Now that he has time to himself, he stretches out on the settee and neatly tucks away into his mind palace all his sensations and observations regarding John Watson. For a doorbell in his entry hall, Sherlock installs Watson's shrill cab-calling whistle. Next to Sherlock's favorite chair, he reserves a place for the way Watson rolls his sore shoulder after sitting still too long. Inside his desk, he stores how Watson's tongue moves in rhythm as he types; in his bedside stand, the feel of the rough callouses on Watson's thumb that he rubs on his worn jeans. He looks forward to a time when he can come back and observe each more closely.

He loses track of time putting bits of John Watson in their places. Why must he be bothered with trivialities like cold cases when he has so much more fascinating things to explore?

He sighs and grudgingly sits down at the desk to complete a few more cold case entries. It's not long before he loses interest and opens a browser. He navigates to John's blog to respond to the comment as thescienceofdeduction. It takes him only a moment to type his response.

_I am not hiding. It is easy to find me at thescienceofdeduction.co.uk_

He stares at the screen, refreshing. Nothing. He gets up and wanders around the room in tight circles. He forgets to duck and whacks his head at a low point on the ceiling, then returns and refreshes again. Over thirty long minutes pass before there is a response from Watson. But it's not on Watson's blog; it's on Sherlock's, under his latest post about blood splatters.

> **John Watson:** Although I could use much of this information as background in my stories, it's dry—which is a shame considering how many of your cases here would be interesting if written up with a bit of creative flair. I will say that I was surprised to find out who you are. Believe it or not, my life isn't boring. Still, you seem a curious bloke and I've always been interested in your work. I wouldn't mind meeting you for tea sometime since _you're_ not a superficial celebrity. I mean, if that meets with your approval.

Sherlock blinks. The nerve of him to insult his writing skills. He immediately comments back.

> **Thescienceofdeduction:** In regard to my "dry" blog, I prefer to dedicate my writings to scientific analyses of crimes, unlike your overly-romanticized blog. Still, I find your fiction passable. A meeting could be arranged since we do have a friend in common (as you well know). Please instruct said friend to pass along your mobile number so we can set a time and place. I promise it will not be boring.

While waiting for a response, Sherlock puts his time to good use and returns the books to the replaced shelves. Even once he's done, he still hasn't gotten a message from Stamford. He's about ready to quit for the day when his mobile pings, but it's from not from Mike, it's from Molly.

His breath catches in his throat as he reads it.

_We need to speak. Come to Barts immediately. Molly_

Sherlock decides that now is a fine time to quit and so texts her back that he'll be there shortly. He slips on the leather coat that he left there that morning. It's raining and the leather will suffer for it, but he'd rather the jacket suffer than he. What's a stiff jacket compared to a nasty chill?

He has no trouble hailing a cab outside the station. One stops immediately. The hailing has never been the problem; it's when he gets inside that he has issues. For once, the driver is gloriously quiet and, even better, he doesn't have the obnoxious radio blaring. Sherlock takes advantage of these few uncommonly peaceful minutes to think.

He was definitely pushed out of Watson again. He felt the falling sensation once more before his own vision returned and his body dropped hard into the ditch near the Thames. Sherlock wonders if there is a limit to how long he can stay inside before he's thrown onto the muddy banks. Next time he'll try to push back that feeling in his mind to see what happens. Maybe it's a matter of concentration or refocusing his thoughts at that precise second when the fall begins.

He wonders why he lands in that specific ditch and whether he could influence the process to land somewhere more desirable. He thinks he may have pulled a muscle rolling down the bank this time, and it's going to be annoying having his coat cleaned so often. Maybe landing on his bed? Now that would be perfect. He would love nothing better at this moment to be back in 221B soaking in a hot bath and smoking a cigarette.

\-------------------------

 

He sucks down two cigerettes near Barts's Henry VIII entrance before going inside. He usually doesn't enter through the main doors, but it's slow tonight. He wants the feeling of familiarity. He refuses to admit to himself that he's unsettled by all that's transpired, but he needs to find some strength in familiar things. Barts is the best place to do this. This is the one place outside of Baker Street where he really feels at home, and it's the one place he hates to rush into or leave quickly.

He texts Molly he's arrived as he steps into the elevator. She meets him face to face as it opens. Next to her stands another lab technician he's never met. A closer inspection tells Sherlock he's more than a lab tech: he's a lab tech specialist. Late thirties, single and currently not dating, top in his class, but at times his extreme attention to detail and need to control his immediate environment impede his productivity. 

"Anxious?" Sherlock asks, raising an eyebrow.

"I'd think you'd be the one anxious," says Molly as she take hold of Sherlock's jacket and pulls him down the hall. "Do you know what you have here?"

"If I knew, I wouldn't have bothered to bring it to you." He brushes off her hand but continues to follow her and the specialist into the first empty lab.

"This is Michael Faraday. And before you ask, yes he's related to that [Michael Faraday](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Michael_Faraday)."

"Add three greats to grandfather and you have it," Faraday says, holding out his hand for Sherlock to shake. Usually, Sherlock would ignore such a gesture, but this is an amazing turn. He wonders if he has stories to tell about the famous Faraday, but that's for another time. He shakes his hand.

"Tell me what you found that demands this level of interest. Certainly it's not alien DNA," Sherlock says.

"Not alien," Faraday says. "But not altogether human either. It's troubling, actually. Cells from a human uterine wall and, well, a tree. Fig tree to be more precise. This must be an example of successful splicing of plant pre-mRNAs into a human system. The ramifications of such splicing are staggering."

"And the moral ramifications...are terrifying," Molly says, looking directly into Sherlock's eyes. "I knew you were spinning a story when you gave this sample to me. Sherlock Holmes would never bother to bring me "alien DNA" for confirmation. The whole thing was a ruse to cover what it's really about. This case—it's something your brother got you mixed up in, isn't it? This is beyond science fiction. What has Mycroft twisted your arm to do now?"

Ahh, sometimes Molly is quite brilliant. He doesn't even need to fabricate a story. She supplied it, and her going on to blame Mycroft is the _pièce de résistance_. It will be easy to brush it all under the rug once he's gotten what Molly and Faraday know.

"I'm sorry, Molly, but I'm not able to divulge that information. Mycroft gave me the strictest orders to tell no one. Not that I necessarily do what he orders me, but in this case, the sensitivity of the situation requires me to. I was arguably remiss in even bringing you the sample, but I simply had to have independent confirmation and knew I could trust your discretion. Mycroft has been impossible as always about giving me access to the information that I need to solve this case. Obviously, I would appreciate it if you could both keep this to yourselves."

"Considering the serious implications of all this, I don't think we can," says Faraday to Molly. "Who is this Mycroft?"

"Sherlock's mysterious older brother, who works for the British government. Sherlock likes to say he _is_ the British government. He's secretive, important, and very, very powerful."

"If Mycroft finds that I took this sample and gave it to you, he'll be more than a little angry with me. Best to keep our mouths shut on this. He has a way of making problems go away, and it is never pleasant."

Faraday looks at Molly. "I'll agree to keep quiet, for now," Faraday says. "But when this case of yours has all resolved, I'll need to know the whole story."

"If it's possible to tell you, I will, but only if you will, in turn, tell me about your namesake," Sherlocks says.

"Agreed," Faraday says.

"Thank you, Molly. Did you talk to Stamford about any of this?" he asks, opening the door to step out.

"No, I told him I needed to speak to you first. I'll explain this all to him. I'm sure he'll be fine," she says.

Sherlock hesitates, waiting. On cue Sherlock's mobile buzzes. He takes it out and looks. It's a text from Stamford.

_Hear you talked with my mate, John. He said to pass on his personal mobile number to you. Let me know how you two get on. I'd love to be a fly on the wall. Mike_

As Sherlock waves goodbye, he wonders why anyone would ever want to be a fly on the wall. One would only have the lifespan of twenty-eight days and there would always be the chance of getting swatted before then.

He takes his time, wandering the wards, going nowhere in particular as he texts John.

_Speedy's on Baker Street tomorrow morning? SH_

He smiles at the immediate response.

_What time? I'm free all morning._

_Nine but I am flexible. SH_

_Nine it is. It's a date! I look forward to meeting the great Sherlock Holmes at last._

_And I the great John Watson. SH_

A date, Sherlock thinks. He picks up Watson's latest novel and begins to read.


	6. Chapter 6

It's Sunday morning and Speedy's is quiet. As he waits, Sherlock fidgets with his coffee cup, spinning it around in his palms. It's 9:05, and Watson is late. Sherlock faces the door, eagle eyes on the window. He's only distracted long enough to pull out his mobile, but tucks it back inside his pocket. He pushes down his impatience. Since early morning, he's quashed the urge to text Watson: he can't risk scaring off Watson with one of his usual abrasive comments.

This thought surprises Sherlock. He actually gives a damn about what Watson might think of him. As Sherlock taps his foot, he envisions what Watson will look like walking through the door: clean-shaven, a fitted blue plaid shirt that sets off his eyes, worn blue jeans that hug his athletic thighs, and a fitted leather jacket.

At 9:08 he gets to see. As soon as Watson steps inside, his eyes immediately light on Sherlock.

For the first time that Sherlock can recall, he's happy to be wrong. Watson's beard is scruffy from rolling out of bed later than usual. He's wearing an old oatmeal jumper—a well-loved piece, most likely from his sister. Although off-the-rack, his black jeans hug him as well as the jeans Sherlock thought he'd be wearing. And there's two other gifts: a black cashmere scarf from his literary agent and black leather gloves from a close male friend. But it's the authentic army jacket that sets Sherlock heart to pounding. There in the doorway, it's almost like he is standing at attention.

As Watson holds his eyes on Sherlock, they sparkle with mischief almost as if he knew he'd thwarted the detective's personal deductions. It's not the same look Sherlock remembers from the mirror—this one has heat to it, and it's admiring, appraising. And better yet, it's focused on him.

While Sherlock is used to such attention, this unsettles him. It impels him to stand as if for immediate inspection. As Watson pulls out the wooden chair across from him, Sherlock holds his gaze. He's transfixed. He offers his hand and when they touch, neurons explode like firecrackers.

Watson blinks and licks his bottom lip. _He feels it too_ , Sherlock thinks. He clasps Sherlock's hand, one second, two seconds, three seconds longer—both reluctant to let go.

"Good to finally meet you," Watson says, then reluctantly drops his hand. He hesitates before taking his seat, eyes raking over Sherlock from his face to his feet then back again. "Mike's talked about you so much over the years, I feel as if I already know you."

"And you're still willing to have coffee with me? Amazing." It warms Sherlock when John laughs at his joke. Sherlock sits back down, his hand still tingling. He marvels at how it's as electric as being inside Watson's body.

"He did tell me that you could be a bit of a wanker, but that all-in-all you are a standup bloke."

"That's better than what most people say."

John picks up the menu, scans it, then bursts out laughing. "And here's another sign you're not such a wanker: There's a breakfast named after you on this menu."

"Yes, and the irony of it is, I've never ordered it. Not once."

"What _do_ you usually order here?"

"Either just coffee, an omelette, or the Full English. It depends if I'm on a case or not."

"You do look a bit different to your photos. It's the plucked eyebrows. Must have been for a case?"

Sherlock frowns down at the table. "Yes. It was necessary."

The young and much too chipper waitress approaches their table to take their orders. She stands between them and looks from one to the other. "What would you like today, Mr. Holmes? Your usual?"

"Cheese omelette with bacon—I'll forgo the mushrooms today—and another coffee," he says.

"And you, sir?" she says, beaming at Watson. Sherlock feels a twinge in his chest.

John licks his lip before answering. "The name's John, and I'll have the Full English Breakfast, please, with coffee. Black."

"Thank you, John," she winks. "I have those right up for you." She completely ignores Sherlock.

John smiles at her, and the waitresses' face lights up. 

As she walks away, Sherlock can't help but feel pleased she has a big run in the back of her stockings.

"Your protagonist in your last novel..." Sherlock says, eyes fixed on Watson's, "is a pretentious arse." While Sherlock cringes inside at his words, his face remains placid. He leans back in his chair as if to distance himself yet he's smiling. Watson is amused.

"He has redeeming qualities," Watson insists.

"Yes, yes. A genius," Sherlock sighs, then waves his hand. "Strikingly handsome, impeccably dressed, complex, moody, a man who undergoes bouts of mania and depression. What do people say?" Sherlock sits back in his seat, eyes steady on Watson's."Ah, yes... _inspiration_. Where did the _inspiration_ for this character come from?"

The waitress sashays back to the table with John's coffee and another for Sherlock. John smiles at her, but his eyes remain on Sherlock.

"Fantastic! Got me." John nods to the waitress, who sets his coffee in front of him, then serves Sherlock his.

"Yes. I did."

"Mike's told me a lot about you. I've read a lot too."

"I suppose I should be flattered." Sherlock takes a sip and scrunches up his face. "Incompetent. Two sugars. Always black with two sugars. She's waitressed here for nine-and-a-half months and still no sugar." He grabs two packets, rips them open and dumps them in.

"Maybe if you weren't so rude."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "She should be arrested for stealing oxygen."

"She's still calling you Mr. Holmes. After nine-and-a-half months, she should be calling you by your first name, don't you think? If you want sugar in your coffee, be nice," Watson says, blinking. "Okay, I guess that's really not you. But my main character? He is. You. Kind of."

Sherlock raises his eyebrow.

"My protagonist,Martin Freeman, is just a composite of what I'd read about you, stories from Mike, and my own vivid imagination. It's really a facsimile. No one has ever drawn that conclusion other than you. Well...and Mike."

"The reviews I've read all address Freeman's 'bohemian complexity' and not the average pop fiction private dick that I abhor." He picks up his spoon and stirs his coffee.

"I don't read reviews much, if at all. I did early in my career, but before long, I quit doing it. And it's good to hear. All writers want to be known for writing complex characters. And I appreciate private dicks, _Mr. Holmes,_ or wouldn't have been writing about them all these years. So you can see why I might be interested in the one consulting dick in the world."

"Sherlock, please."

"And call me John." He sits forward, leaning across the table. "Tell me...did you really walk into Buckingham Palace wearing only a sheet, three nicotine patches, and a smile?"

"I did."

John leans back into his seat with a broad grin. "I hope you got a souvenir."

"Sadly, I didn't, but next time I'm there I'll be sure to steal an ashtray for you."

"I'd love that. Mike said you have a mysterious brother who works for the government. What else about you? In a relationship? Mike said you never talk about your personal life other than you told him once that you didn't have time for friends, and that you were married to your work."

"You already know women are not my area since Freeman is clearly gay."

"Like my protagonist, no boyfriend then."

John is clearly flirting with him and simply views him as a challenge. Sherlock, however, doesn't need complications. Best to nip this in the bud. "No boyfriend, and Mike is correct: my work is always my priority. It's my business to know what other people do not. I can't do that efficiently with entanglements and emotions. What I hold above all things is pure, cold reason."

"That will never keep you warm at night," John says.

"And does Three Continents Watson keep very warm at night?" 

"Toasty." John lips curve in a shadow of a smile, so he clearly hasn't taken offense. "You know that about me, so you've clearly been asking Mike about me as well." As the waitress slides his plate in front of John, his smile turns to her. "Looks delicious. Thank you."

She smiles back and winks, then sets Sherlock's plate in front of him without so much as a look. She goes to wait on the next table.

"I wouldn't take her number," Sherlock advises, picking up his fork. "She has a live-in boyfriend with a nasty temper. She also has a pet chicken and rabbit."

"You know that because she's worked here for a nine-and-a-half months, or because you did that thing that Mike says you do...deducing people?"

"Deducing. Being observant. Bruises on her wrist. Flecks of poultry-pelts and feather tufts on her shoes. White rabbit hair on her skirt."

"Amazing. What else do you know about her?"

"She's an art student, who recently sold her first painting for a substantial sum. Parents are divorced. Father is in prison. Brother a lory driver. Is that enough about her?"

"Thats bloody brilliant. Do it again."

Sherlock's face warms. No one ever says he's brilliant when he does that. "Suggest someone."

"There," John points to a woman sitting near them with long braided red hair, in a dark blue blazer with matching pencil skirt and simple white cotton blouse.

"Single and lives alone. Large family and remains close to her mum. Investigative reporter looking for her first big scoop. In fact she thinks she has it now."

"That's just amazing. How?"

"She doesn't like to share space, evidenced by her handbag on the vacant seat, but more telling, her body language. She crosses and uncrosses her legs when people walk near her table. She's had to share her entire life and resents it. Her suit and shoes are higher-end hand-me-downs from her sister who's in banking. Her locket is an heirloom, so it holds some sort of sentimental attachment: she rubs it gently between her fingers. As for being a reporter, she's been talking into her mobile. Recording notes. She's waiting for an opportunity to approach."

"We're her big scoop."

"Obviously."

"So how long before she comes over?"

"Not much longer. First she'll wait to see if either of us gets up to use the loo. Better to catch us separately. But if not, she'll wait until we're about halfway finished with our meal, so I suggest we take our time savoring the breakfast and each other's company." Sherlock hopes he's wrong about the interruption, but regrets that he's not likely to be. He's enjoying himself and abhors nosey reporters.

"Amazing! And speaking of amazing, I've got to know more about the case that forced you to pluck your eyebrows. Or, better yet, tell me about the case you're working on now. Mike says its some super-secret assignment."

"Yes, which means that I'm not at liberty to talk about it. But I can tell you about another case if you'd be interested."

"Actually yes. I'd love that. Not all of your blog is about tobacco ash—there are some interesting cases you mention. You really need to go into more detail. The one about the stain on the parquet floor was brilliant. Bloody fantastic, really, but you left out so much."

Sherlock's face heats at the compliment.

 "I'm guessing the people you were protecting were pretty important, say as high up as Prime Minister?"

"Again, I can't say."

"You can tell me more than what's on your blog. I'd love to hear it."

Sherlock heart skips a bit at his words. "Ah, yes, the stolen documents from the box. At first I wasn't going to take the case," Sherlock began. "You're completely right about the contents being sensitive. If divulged, the letters within would have had dire consequences, possibly resulting in war. It was taken from the home of the European Secretary. Lady Hilda Trelawney Hope, the Secretary's wife, visited me at 221B. She begged me to recover the box with the letters and tell her husband nothing of her visit.”

“Well, it would be unfortunate to involve her if it were something scandalous,” John says, taking a bite of his eggs. “This is delicious. You should eat.”

“I don't eat when I'm on a case. Or when I’m revealing one," Sherlock says, intent on continuing with the story. "That was what was curious. There was nothing scandalous other than that it was in her husband's possession, which was the only mildly curious detail. Lady Hope revealed that she felt responsible for the letters being stolen and that her husband hadn't realized they were gone. They were politically sensitive, but I really have no interest in politics—not my domain. I had no inclination to take the case even if I was being pressured to recover them, which was enough to make me not want to take any case. I changed my mind when she told me the first detective she hired to find and return the letters was murdered.”

"You like danger." Watson beams at the idea of it.

Sherlock pushes his omelette around on the plate with his fork, then takes a bite of toast. So do you, he thinks. “Yes. It's always an added incentive. Four days after the murder, the French police arrested a woman they thought was the murderer, living there under an alias. She was seen in London the night of the crime.”

“And you traveled to Paris to confirm it.”

“Yes. A complete waste of my time. I got nothing from her to further the case except ruling her out as the killer.” Sherlock realises that John is watching the reporter watch them, but continues. “I knew the killer was a professional and had an idea who it might be. Upon returning to London, Detective Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard texted me to come to a new murder scene in a room at the Dorchester to examine something he found odd. The victim had bled onto the rug beneath him and the blood soaked through it. Curiously, though, there was no bloodstain on the floor directly beneath the rug. I noticed that the outer edge of the carpet was dotted with blood flecks—some bloodied hand had pulled at the carpet. Obviously, it had been moved. But why? We pulled up the rug and behold, I found a hiding place in the parquet floor. But when I opened it, it was empty.”

“Fascinating,” John says, licking a bit of bacon off his bottom lip.

“After viewing surveillance footage from the hotel, Lestrade’s team made a list of those with access to the room. Not surprisingly, there was a ten minute lapse in the tape just when the carpet would have been moved. However, there was video of the housekeeper apparently fainting at the sight of the blood. She was the one who then reported the body. The ten minute gap wasn't long after this happened. I asked to interview her first.”

“I don’t recall a woman arrested for this,” John says, holding on to each of Sherlock's words, which Sherlock finds refreshing. Usually he receives sneers and bored sighs as a reaction to his retelling of cases.

“She had nothing to do with the murder, but everything to do with concealing the hiding place."

"She moved the carpet."

Sherlock nods eagerly. "Upon first questioning, she denied all knowledge, but when confronted with the name Lady Hope, she collapsed and admitted she'd worked for her until recently. She also knew the victim and what he was hiding in the floor. That the contents were gone didn’t surprise her because she had already looked.”

“She took the letter." John frowns, thinking.

"Ah, I see you understand."

"Obviously, the person who killed the victim was the same professional, who now had the letter,” John says.

“Yes, an unsavory individual. This hired killer always dispatches all his victims in the same manner: a close range headshot with a silencer and DRT round. Unusual but an effective method.”

With some disappointment, Sherlock notices the young reporter stand. He was hoping she'd at least wait until he was done telling John the case.

"Good morning Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson," she says, looking from one to the other expectantly. "My name is Kitty Riley, and I'm a freelance investigative reporter." She shakes John's hand, then Sherlock's. She steps far too close as she does and brushes against him. Sherlock steps back, bumping into his chair. "This looks like an interesting meeting of the minds. I was hoping I could ask you a few questions."

Sherlock spies John pressing his lips tight together. Maybe they should have talked about this. Sherlock assumed John enjoys fans interrupting, but it seems that reporters might not be in the same category.

"I suppose that's fine with me if Sherlock doesn't mind," John says finally. 

Sherlock shrugs. He wants this to be John's decision.

"I guess there's no harm to it," John says. "What would you like to know?"

She pulls out the chair and sits between them, but scoots closer to Sherlock. "I am such a fan of both of you. Really. That's why I was so curious to see you two sitting here having breakfast."

"I live upstairs," Sherlock says in monotone. "And you know that."

She ignores his comment, plunging ahead. "What prompted your meeting?"

"Mutual admiration, I'd say, wouldn't you, Sherlock?"

"Yes. That's it," but he doesn't say more. John stares at him, pointedly.

Again, she ignores Sherlock's lack of enthusiasm and turns her focus on the more forthcoming Watson. "Are you working on a new book together?" Then she reaches out and touches John's hand. Sherlock blinks and stares at it, hoping that if he does it long enough, she'll stop. Instead, it's John who pulls away.

"I'm always working on a new novel, but that's not why we're meeting. We have mutual interests—admired each other's work, so we decided to meet."

"What is your next novel about?" She leans into him as she asks. Does every woman who meets Watson throw themselves at him?

"I'm not quite ready to discuss that yet."

"What exactly _have_ you been discussing with Mr. Holmes then?" the tone of her voice drips with innuendo.

"You overheard most of it," Sherlock interrupts. "A past case. I was about to finish the story. I'd like to do so if you don't mind."

"I'd love to hear it, actually." She turns to Sherlock as if all is forgiven and actually bats her eyes at him. A shudder creeps up his arm as she briefly touches his hand.

Sherlock clears his throat as John laughs into his hand and winks. At him. That's a much more promising turn of events.

"I'd love to hear the rest," John says.

"Very well. On a tip from one of my homeless network, I tracked the assassin to an empty warehouse with the intent of surprising him. I found traps set that might tip the assassin off that I was there. Once inside, I located a knapsack with the murderer's belongings next to a motorbike. I took the knapsack. At my signal, Detective Inspector Lestrade and his men entered the grounds, alerting our killer, who headed for the knapsack. Lestrade's men entered, spooking the assassin who then leaped onto the motorbike and escaped, leaving the knapsack with me. Inside was the murder weapon and..."

"The box with the letter," John says.

"Which I returned to Lady Hope. As we all know, the cat was out of the bag regarding the theft. We were, however, able to keep the contents from the media and diverted a possible conflict of global proportions."

"And the murderer?" John asks.

"Still at large."

Kitty taps her foot. "Excellent story. But I'm more interested in the story of both of you. You seem a bit too cozy for having just met. I think there's more to _this_ story then either of you are telling."

John laughs. "Honestly, Miss Riley, this is the first we've met."

Sherlock respects John for keeping Mike out of this. He doesn't want Riley nosing around Barts. Or around him. Or, especially, the seventh-and-a-half floor of New Scotland Yard.

"I don't think so," she says. "The way you two were mooning over each other before I came over, I suspected. But since, you've both rebuffed my advances. I know I'm right."

"You're out of line, Miss Riley," John says with a command in his voice. Sherlock tries to suppress his excitement.

"Ignore her," Sherlock says. "She's looking for her big scoop, and if she can't find it, she'll invent it. Isn't that so, Miss Riley? She's also not completely honest about who she's working for. It's _The Sun_. I detest _The Sun_."

"It's a reputable paper."

"Like you? You repel me."

Despite the insult, she remains at the table outwardly unfazed. But the tension in her brow indicates otherwise.

As if there were any question, John finalizes it with iron in his voice. "That's the signal for the end of your interview, Miss Riley."

She stands abruptly and snatches her purse and bag from the next table.

"That was a bit not good, saying she repulses you." John watches as Riley marches out the door. "But she was out of line."

"And she does repulse me." _But you don't_ , Sherlock thinks.

Sherlock finds that he doesn't want breakfast to end, but sadly, John is nodding at the waitress for the check.

"I'll take care of it," Sherlock insists.

"Sooo...you live upstairs," John says.

Sherlock suddenly feels his heart race. He didn't want it to be over, but upstairs? Alone with John Watson?

"As I said earlier. I'm not into romantic entanglements," he says, slowly trying his best to modulate the anxiety out of his voice.

But John sloughs it off and instead wears a secret smile. He knows and has exposed Sherlock's true desire.

"I'm only interested in seeing where the great detective Sherlock Holmes lives and works. Pure writer's curiosity." He stands, eyes on Sherlock's mouth. "Oh, hell. I admit I'm a bit taken with you. Who won't be with those cheekbones, those cupid-bow lips, and a body any sculptor would die for? And that voice? You could melt the polar icecaps with it."

Sherlock blinks fast, and suddenly finds the tablecloth fascinating, worrying the edge with his fingers as he awkwardly stands. "Um, yes. No, I mean, thank you."

Sherlock's face heats up as John watches him with a gentle grin.

"I would, yes, of course..." Sherlock wonders if it's possible for him to drop through the floor. Where are all those hidden trapdoors when you need them? It's a deficiency that should be remedied. He takes a deep breath. "YesIwouldenjoymeetingwithyouagain." Dammit. Another breath. "If you, I mean, understand that I am indeed married to my work."

"Yes, yes. No romantic entanglements. I suppose I should stay clear. I'm in up to my neck in them right now."

Sherlock would ask, but really, he knows enough. And what he doesn't know, he really doesn't want to know, although he's certain he's going to find out.

"Maybe next time," John says, hopefully. John shakes his hand in goodbye. Sherlock's hand tingles long after they let go.

"Indeed," Sherlock says, picking up the check. "And if a strange black sedan ever pulls up next to you, don't get in."

"Don't tell me you have some sort of an 'arch enemy'."

"You could say that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. As always, Kudos are greatly appreciated and comments are treasured and loved.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, Sherlock takes another step inside Watson's mind.

After their meeting, Sherlock returns to 221B and immediately throws himself down on his couch. He shuts his eyes, steeples his hands, and presses them to his lips. He proceeds directly into his mind palace. There he constructs a wing for all that's new and fascinating about John Watson. Once done, he spends hours sorting John into the new space: his laughs, his smiles, the way he licks his lips. Sherlock reasons that these intimate slices of information may be necessary when inside the mind of the man. _Ahh yes, deductions._ Work complete, Sherlock hums in pleasure as he lounges inside John's new space, soaking it in.

The puzzle John presents boggles his mind. Direction. He needs direction. A laissez-faire attitude will not do. Although Sherlock often reacts and solves problems as they arise, this cannot be the case with John Watson. No. John's mind requires finesse. Care must be taken, and he must be certain not interfere with John actions. Sherlock must keep his thoughts separate, train them away from John's thoughts. Sherlock must consciously compartmentalize his mind. This he can do. He's done it since he was a child.

HIs mind palace serves him well in this respect. He can build walls and tunnels. He can lock doors and block them with bookcases in his mind. He will do this to keep his thoughts from interfering with those of John Watson. But how will he see John's if he blocks the way? He's not even certain if once inside he _can_ block John away. Construct a one way mirror? That might be possible. He will observe, feel, live inside. Look but not touch.

He opens his eyes to his friend on the mantelpiece, whose empty sockets gaze back at Sherlock. So many times Sherlock has tried to deduce who this man was. What did he do? He can deduce his features. He can deduce his station in life (the man had good dental care). But as for what was within the man, his hopes and dreams? Sherlock knew nothing. Not even his name. Hamlet knew his Yorick, but this was no friend to him in life. Sherlock would never know what he felt, what he thought. To know another's mind was an intimacy that Sherlock never knew he'd be afforded. Now he has, and he plans to make the most of it that he can.

Sherlock no longer thinks of the office as a prison, but he must insist it is one for those on the outside. What's happened is implausible, but it has happened. Others have done this in the past. The room, the hidden door, the bookcase. Someone else in Scotland Yard must know about it all. Dare he find them?

There are so many dangers in this, and Sherlock's heart races thinking of them. The still-unanswered question of being trapped within another's mind. Others who know the secret must be willing to protect it. And those who might find out? What might they do with the secret?

He needs to explore the parallels between Doyle and Watson along with the mystery of brain transference, _and_ he must complete the case files stacked in boxes—if only to keep Mycroft at bay.

He supposes Mycroft expects Sherlock to try to wheedle out of his job, and he should try to do so to keep in character. Best not look too eager to leave.

More data is necessary to ascertain how one mind within another works, but really he just wants inside John's intoxicating brain again. He sees an another addiction coming, but he's not one to balk at that. He's ready to embrace it. He desperately wants to return inside, but today is not the time. Going in to NSY on a Sunday would make Mycroft highly suspicious.

Instead of staying at 221B, he decides to take a cab and distract himself with the complexity of London. Being inside John is much like being inside the city he loves. He wants to become as familiar with the streets, the rooftops, and alleyways in John's mind as he is with London's. As he rides in the back of the cab, Sherlock's hand prickles from the sensory memory of John's touch.

While he'd like to learn how the room and its passageway came into existence, Sherlock realizes that to investigate too obviously will draw suspicion and risk exposure. He may need to simply accept its existence and focus on the mystery of consciousness. Tomorrow he'll learn more, and maybe that will help satisfy him.

He might as well pass the time solving one of Lestrade's old cold cases. All he needs to do is visit The White Hart Hotel at 1 High Street and find the room in question. He gives the cabby that address. It's the place where the supposed witness stood at the window and watched the murder. He keeps the part about murder from the cabby. No need to make him nervous. He's certain he will solve the case immediately. Afterward, he can spend the evening breaking into the cold case databank from 221B and use his personal laptop to enter data on cases much more efficiently—a cheat that Mycroft will expect.

Less than fifteen minutes later, Sherlock gazes out the window of deluxe king room number 22, and somewhere in London John Watson looks out a window too. Sherlock doesn't intuit this; he's certain. He doesn't understand how he came to that conclusion since it's not a deduction. Neither facts nor evidence are utilized. Nevertheless, he's certain John Watson is gazing down at the Thames from his window, just as he's certain that the "supposed" witness who stood at this window witnessed no murder: he _was_ the murderer.

\-----------------------------

On Monday, the office is as he left it on Saturday. He takes a seat behind his desk and stares at the bookcase. The connection he felt last night with John is gone. He wonders what John Watson is doing and who he's with. Another trip through the bookcase entrance, and he could find out.

Instead, Sherlock picks up a file and slaps in on the desk. It's painfully dull to open, but he must. He needs to tuck away some of these files and take them home to 221B where he can work more efficiently. Better to take one of the crates home with him. The buzz from his mobile becomes a thankful distraction until he sees the call is from Mycroft. He could turn the phone off, but that might be suspicious. He could answer it, but that might be even more suspicious. He decides not to answer it and lets it go to voice mail. Sherlock jumps when the old black rotary phone, sitting on the corner of his desk, rings instead. He rolls his eyes, but picks up the receiver.

"Hello, Mycroft."

"That is not how one answers the phone at the New Scotland Yard."

"This is hardly a phone—it's an antique analog monstrosity. What do you want?" Sherlock closes his eyes in irritation.

"We thought we should inquire as to how you were getting on since you had not sent any more irritating texts."

"I'll be certain to send you one." Sherlock taps on his mobile. "Ahh. There. Done. Irritating enough?"

"As always, dear brother, as always. Cases coming along?"

"Boring. But you know that. I would burn them and be done with them, but there might be one actual case worth salvaging."

"Yes. Much like the murder at The White Hart you solved last night. Secret love triangles complicate life, especially when one of them finds out the dirty little secret. The plan, however, was not for you to solve the cases but rather to enter and file them into the system."

"Lestrade wanted me to solve some of these cases. Why else wave them all under my nose?"

"There is still time for you to visit Mummy."

"I'd rather wade through the banks of the Thames."

Mycroft pauses. "Do you think that I am not suffering? Were it not for Gregory's company, I would gladly trade places with you."

"But you love teas with Mummy. You can converse about what a terrible son and brother I am and plot more revenge on me for all the trouble I've caused over the years."

"That is indeed entertaining, but presently it's Gregory who is the center of attention for Mummy. It seems she greatly enjoys his company, and he actually _enjoys_ her stories."

"I can imagine what she's telling him about us both. Thank you for that. It makes me feel a lot better to know she's bringing out all your chubby photos and sharing them with Geoff."

"It's dreadfully painful."

"You made my day. Well,enough brotherly comradery—I have bodies to uncover, cases to enter."

"A moment, Sherlock. Why _were_   you wading along the banks of the Thames?"

"Another one of the cold cases."

"Yes, that was quick. I could say almost rehearsed. What were you really up to, Sherlock, and why the sudden interest in this author John Watson?"

Here it comes. This is exactly what Sherlock expected from his brother. He's nosey to the extreme and his minions never fail to report back to him what Sherlock "has done this time."

"It's none of your business, but if you must know, Mike Stamford set it all up. As you most certainly already know, Mike is a mutual friend and also an insufferable busybody—much like you. Actually, I think the two of you'd get on splendidly. You and Mike enjoy the same pastries. Strawberry Danish?"

"Greg told me to tell you not to forget that you must file the cases away properly. Have a jolly time indexing. Goodbye, Sherlock."

He hangs up with a click. Mycroft suspects something is amiss—he could never dream what's really happened, but he's watching (as always).

Sherlock opens a new window on the computer. He puffs on a cigarette as he waits impatiently until he's finally is able to open John's blog. It seems John is being honored tomorrow night at some sort of writers' reception his publisher is throwing for him. He's won the The Strand Prize for his Martin Freeman mystery series.

Sherlock composes a comment of congratulations which includes his personal hopes that John will have a good time and adds a teasing comment at the end about meeting him again soon. Sherlock is not good at relationships and isn't sure if he isn't being too forward, but he's certain John will get the hint. Unfortunately, he most likely has someone to warm his arm already, but there's always another time. John will at least know from his comment that Sherlock is interested.

Sherlock stands up and stretches before bending down to pick up the crate of finished files. He may as well do as Geoff wants and file the finished cases away in the archives, even though doing so goes well beyond the punishment fitting the crime. While the thought of being in with all of the oldest of cold cases that the Yard held a certain appeal, the menial task of indexing them might put him to sleep. He bitterly punches the button to the elevator. It's so tedious. If he thought he could bribe someone to do this for him without Mycroft finding out, he would. He actually might do it anyway.

The elevator door opens on the lower floor and Sherlock hauls the crate down the hall. The sharp plastic edges of handle dig painfully into his fingers. He opens the door into a stuffy room filled with shelves stuffed with boxes, rows and rows of filing cabinets, and an old gentleman in a musty suit with a sardonic smile on his lips.

"There you are. Lestrade told me to expect you," he says.

He's tall with spindly legs and a lean face, but his developed biceps and toned body scream retired ex-military, armed forces. This man saw a lot of action and his skin a lot of sun. Once a beat officer, then a detective. His tie is loose around his neck. It's evident he hates wearing one.

A blink tells Sherlock the man is ending his career working cold cases behind a desk. While he's balding and grey on the sides, he's too practical to bother with a comb over. His extended family lives nearby in Surrey, where he visits his grandchildren regularly. His smile turns from sardonic to kindly as he looks Sherlock up and down—Sherlock never expects sympathic posturing from people, especially not from someone like this, who's been around more than long enough to learn about how difficult Sherlock Holmes is. But the world has been filled with surprises for Sherlock lately.

When Sherlock drops the crate down on the tile floor with a bang that echoes through the room, he doesn't jump. Instead, his blue eyes sparkle behind black-framed glasses.

"I'll give you a hand with those," he says, pointing to the crate. "But I'm not indexing them, mind you. You're the one with the young, strong back and can do the bending and lifting. I'll show you where to file 'em and how to file 'em. Been here four years working these cases, more years than I want to count at the Yard. You're either quite the rising star or a gigantic pain in the arse, depending who's doing the talking." He holds out his hand. "Name's Jack, Jack Finney, and you're Sherlock Holmes, _consulting_ detective.

His grip is that of a man who's mastered the perfect handshake: back straight, eyes direct, right hand reaching with two firm shakes. "Mr. Holmes," he repeats. "Good to finally meet you."

"Sherlock, please."

"And call me Jack."

It's at that moment that Sherlock realises that the introduction went too smoothly, that they were on first name basis much too soon. It's what's behind the eyes of the man with the handshake—the knowing look as he drops his hand to his side. He knows something about the office upstairs.

"Let's get this all sorted," he orders. "Pick up a handful of those files and let's see where they go."

Sherlock leans over and picks up ten files or so off the top.

"We do this by case number. You've already cross-referenced these in the database for us by date and name of victim—saves us from searching in this vast monstrosity of misfiling. But Lestrade said you had a mind for connecting other things—evidence and crime scene details, motives and such. People have been doing this for months upon months, but he said you'd do it a lot more precisely and faster." He pulls out a drawer. "That first one goes in here."

Sherlock files it away, then Jack points to the drawer below it. Sherlock pulls it out and slips the next file inside. They walk up and down the aisles with Jack pointing his boney finger at one drawer after another with Sherlock filing them away. Sherlock knows he could be doing this himself, but it's actually not so bad having Jack's help. As they work, Jack explains the history of the cold case index system (not so boring, might be useful), unfolds some of the cold cases that he helped solve (not boring at all).

Sherlock pulls another drawer open for the last case #NSYH87-03B159CD2."For this job, I hear that Lestrade confined you to the office of no return."

Sherlock stops and stares at him. "The office of no return? Clarify." 

"Only three people ever had that office. Two died no more than three days after being assigned to that office. The other, he's still kicking, but it's not because it didn't try to kill him."

"That would be you."

"You got that right. 'Course I expected you to figure that out, being Sherlock Holmes and all."

"And no one's had the office since?"

Jack shakes his head. "I know it sounds odd, but believe it or not, officers can be a superstitious lot. No one ever wanted it. It's been cleaned and kept up like some damned shrine, but no one's wanted to set foot in it since. I never went back there."

 _My brother put me in there,_ Sherlock thinks as he files the last of the cold cases away. _What was his reason?_

"What inside the office almost killed you?"

"Ahh. You could hazard a guess, I'm sure."

"Not a person, therefore, it had to be something to do with the structure of the building. Since it's a curious room, it could have had something within it that was toxic, but having been in said room and having found nothing remotely toxic, this leads me to deduce that it had to be something from the outside coming in. A gas of some sort. Carbon monoxide."

"You are as good as they say. Not a nancy boy at all, even if you do dress well. Turns out it was carbon monoxide from a faulty water heater in the loo down the hall that did it. It was never installed properly. You'd think that after two unusual deaths, the powers that be wouldn't put another detective in that room. I took a kip on the settee the second day and almost didn't up afterward."

"Bureaucracy holds no bounds when it comes to stupidity."

"You got that right." Yet Jack doesn't believe his own words and neither does Sherlock. Jack is withholding something.

He bumps the drawer shut with a bang, jolting Sherlock out of his thoughts.

"You were a detective. What were you investigating at the time?" Sherlock asks.

"You mean it wasn't really an accident? I knew it wasn't an accident. Of course I knew it wasn't. Just as me being here to help you file is no accident."

"Mycroft! I should have known. He sent you to talk to me. Put me in that room. I should have suspected it was something more than a punishment."

"I know sod all about any Mycroft, and from your tone, I don't want to know. As for you working here, Lestrade talked to me before he left and said you were taking care of things as a favor, which really sounds more like some sort of punishment. I don't know why Lestrade put you in that office, but there is a reason. Over the years, there's plenty of things I wish I could forget. That room is one of them, if get my meaning." He lowers his voice, leaning close to Sherlock. He smells of cheap bar soap and aftershave. "You watch yourself. And another word of advice: there are some secrets which do not permit themselves to be told."

"I'll take that into consideration."

"Heed what I'm saying, Sherlock, and take care not to get yourself in so far that you'll never return."

\---------------------------------

Sherlock goes back to the office and works through a few more files before he decides he'll take some of them back to 221B. He keeps returning to Jack Finney and the men who died in the office. Others know about this place: what it is, what it does, and who they are is all tied together with Doyle and now, with Finney. As for Mycroft, it's probable he knows there's something more to this room or else he never would have put him here. Somehow Lestrade is tied into this too, although most likely Mycroft sold it to him as just another murder mystery to solve. He should have known from the beginning that Mycroft had his pasty hand in all this.

After he's made some good progress on the files, he decides to look over the bookcase again in search of more clues. He pulls out the books related to spiritualism, an interest of Doyle's. Next time he meets with John, he'll ask him if he's familiar with the author.

Over half an hour of skimming, occasionally dipping in to read some passages more closely,  and he pushes the book back into its spot on top shelf. He moves to the books that have to be removed to get to the passageway's door. One by one he pulls out the volumes. Then he notices one he'd missed. He doesn't know how that is possible. It obviously couldn't have been there before. The book is in an old cover, but what's inside is not: _The Neoclassical Interpretation of Modern Physics and Its Implication for Information Transfer Theory Based on Interpretation of Spirituality_ by Dr. Joseph Bell. 

He skims the table of contents and opens to the introduction. Then flips through the book. It's pseudoscience or so it seems at first glance, yet he can't deny that it's describing what has happened to him, no matter how farfetched. The book's chapters discuss dark matter, Gabor transfer, and quantum physics. All areas he has scant familiarity with.

He slips the book into the inside pocket of his coat. Where ever he lands, he'll still have it.

He finishes the ritual of removing the books from the shelves.

\------------------------

Once inside John, they open their eyes. _I don't know where I am; not even sure who. Then I gather myself inside John's mind._

_We are together, although you don't perceive me. The part of us that is you knows where we are. I do not. The shock to my senses forces a gasp from our lips. A large bed. One man and one woman. And us. No one is clothed._

_I do not like the crushing intimacy, but you do, so I keep as quiet inside our mind as I can. I can not produce a wall to separate us. I feel it all as if it's me, and we are together. It's so difficult to do with our mouth filled with cock and our fingers inside a vagina while being sucked and fondled and..._

_The others are both beautiful and sexually aroused. So many arms, legs, and mouths together. I clinically watch, but it's impossible to remain detached._

_I cannot deduce. There is no data, only bare skin. The room is a dark backdrop that you disregard. I need you to look, but your eyes remain either closed or focused on a rather large penis. Every grey cell my being inhabits wants to rebel, but I will not interfere with this. An odd thing happens as I try to detach myself: the reverse happens. I become aroused with you, because of you. It's not the hand pumping or tongue flicking or sucking. I see myself through your thoughts. My God. You're imagining me. Me.You are pretending it's_ _me_ _._

_How is this possible? Like a waking dream I see myself in his mind's eye, my cheeks flushed and my cock in his mouth, his fingers inside me, my mouth sucking him, my fingers working to breach him. I want it to be real. Lust and longing engulf me. His cock slips from my lips as we come together._

"God, John!" 

_I couldn't suppress myself. I call out his name. Through John's lips. Which is a bit not good and confusing to all those concerned—especially to John, who blinks._

_And I know what else is not good: the sweaty, come-covered face and bodies all wrapped around us._

While Sherlock mentally flings himself off the bed, John remains in place, confused.

"Did you just shout out your own name?" the woman asks as she leans over and clicks on the bedside lamp. She's petite and pale with a round, angelic face and flushed cheeks. Her long blonde ringlets cling to her brow and are tossed about like a halo around her head as she lies on the bed next to them. Her arm is over her head, and there's a ring on her finger.

"I think I did," John says.

"You aren't shagging anyone named John, are you?" the man asks, but he's half-joking as he scoots down the bed and nuzzles our neck. Sherlock thinks it's disgusting. John, however, does not. Sherlock comprehends why. The man is beautiful. As John's eyes rake over his raven hair, brooding brown eyes with lashes just as dark, a pang of jealously rushes through Sherlock. The man's pouty lips press together in worry as he stares at John. He's toned and Sherlock deduces that he must spend at least twelve hours per week at a gym. He wears a ring that matches the woman's, of braided platinum and gold. He scratches his face and waits for John's answer, which has taken far too long because Sherlock is mucking up John's thoughts.

"No," John says finally.

"What was that then?" she asks.

"I don't know. I haven't been myself lately."

"Who have you been?" she laughs—or more like, honks. Worse, her little joke is cliché and too close to the truth. Sherlock decides he doesn't like her. She's an artificial salon blonde number 10B with a perm who laughs like a goose.

The man's frown deepens;his hand tugs at the sheet, then flattens out the creases. It's the same type of frown that his mum told Sherlock would "freeze that way" if he didn't "wipe it off his face."

"You said things didn't work out with Mary," the man says. "I have to admit—we have to admit—that we were a bit relieved. But the whole idea that you were actually looking for some sort of relationship and that made you think about us and what we wanted, really wanted with you. We talked it about it."

"I don't know what I was looking for with Mary."

"Evie and I wondered...if you wanted something like that in your life...some permanence. We were up for offering that to you. What we're asking you is well, to live together, to share our lives, to be the three of us for now and forever." He's holding his breath. She, however, is relaxed and twirling one of her ringlets in her fingers.

"Live together? Like a family?" John says. Inside, Sherlock joins John and feels hollow. "Is that what do you mean, Kevin?"

"We want a committed relationship," Kevin says, reaching under the pillow and pulling out a small velvet box. He opens it. Inside is a matching braided platinum and gold ring. "Family. Children. I know doing it with three people isn't the normal way it's done, but we love you, John."

"You're asking me to marry you both," John chokes back a laugh.

"Yes," Kevin says.

"Yes," Evie smiles. "To take vows."

"The three of us?" John's voice cracks as he says it, and our head is shaking no. Sherlock is not sure which one of them is doing it.

"I told you he wouldn't," she sighs, looking at her hands in disappointment.

A tear rolls down Kevin's cheek. Sherlock thinks he's either a good actor or, more likely, he really is in love with John Watson. He attempts to sift John's mind for reciprocity, but he can't find any verification. He does learn that at one time Evie had viewed John as a way to spice up their love life. It was a way for her to be a bad girl and feel desired. But Sherlock suspects that now she cares for John. While she's not as deeply invested as her husband, she places Kevin's happiness above hers. Sherlock also suspects she may be a bit jealous of Kevin's affections for John and is afraid she might lose him to John if she does not go along with this idea.

"I'm sorry," John says with a sigh. Sherlock separates his psyche as much as he's able. He remains hiding, watching as he feels panic. He's not sure who the panic belongs to.

"Sorry? You've given us so much. Don't give us an answer tonight," Kevin pleads, hand trembling as he holds out the box. "Think about it."

John's palm itches, but he doesn't take the ring. His heart palpitates and his breathing increases.

 _Will John agree to this? He couldn't. He can't. He was thinking of_ _me_ _._

John swallows hard. His hands are shaking. His world is spinning. He hears John's inner self-recriminating thoughts for getting in this deep—that it was fine when it was physical sex, but emotional attachment followed too fast, and all the personal boundaries they'd set at the beginning, they'd broken. He should have stepped away months ago.

"I don't think it will work," John speaks for them both.

"Of course it will. It's worked beautifully so far," Kevin says.

"I can't help thinking that at some point one of you is going to be hurt." Brave John says this despite feeling as if he's having a massive heart attack. Sherlock wants the choking feeling to be over.

"Life is about taking chances, and we all struggle with trust. But maybe you're the one who's worried about getting hurt the most. You needn't be. And as far as Evie and I are concerned, if anything, you've strengthened our relationship."

John turns to Evie. They see a flicker of doubt in her eyes.

"I don't think..." John says.

Kevin halts John's words with a finger to his lips. "I asked you to think about it. Please."

John nods slowly, but inside his head he objects and begins to shiver as if outside in the cold rain.

We waste no time wiping our brow, pulling on our pants and trousers. We're still putting on our coat when we race out the door, heart still racing inside our chest.

As John reaches the street the sights, sounds, and scent of London hit them both. Our world is still spinning, but our heart begins to slow. He whistles for a cab as thoughts tumble around John's mind that Sherlock sorts and files for him. He thinks he's gone crazy. John loves what he has with Kevin and Evie. He doesn't want to lose it. He _loves_ them. He can't understand why he's suddenly so torn. Only days ago he would have jumped at this possibility. Now, it causes a pain so deep in John's chest—no Sherlock causes the pain.John clutches at the front of his jacket.

"Jesus. Jesus," John says, breathing hard. "I just met him."

Sherlock pulls his mind away and tucks himself deep inside. _It's impossible_ , John thinks. _It will never work._

Sherlock suppresses the urge to insert his thoughts of affirmation into John's—but he doesn't. Maybe he's thinking of Sherlock.

Then Sherlock hears John's thoughts clearly, thinking about how he cares for them. How he has nothing else. That he can't base his future on a one-time meeting. An infatuation.

Sherlock wills himself from inserting his own feelings. He wants to tell John that his reasoning is faulty, that John only loves the idea of the couple, that John's first thoughts were correct—it will never work. Sherlock cocoons himself from the pain John feels because it hurts him too. _He was thinking of me. He was thinking of me._

As John hails a cab, a black sedan with dark, tinted windows pulls up short next to him. Sherlock groans internally as the door opens.

 


	8. Chapter 8

"Do get in. I haven't all day. I must, sadly, get back to Mummy."

Mycroft sits, his back ramrod straight, coolly assessing John. His lips press tight in disproval. Anthea his assistant ignores him completely, as usual. She never acknowledges anyone other than Mycroft, her lord and master. She scrolls her mobile and doesn't bother to look up.

The usual insults and digs come to Sherlock to spit out at his big brother. He immediately sequesters his mind from John's, every part that's him inside John wanting to scream, "Run, John, run!" 

"Are you daft? I'm not getting inside. Sherlock warned me about you."

 _You know. John, you're not surprised._ Sherlock is pleased John listened to his earlier warning. If he could smile without interfering with Watson, he would.

"Yes, our mutual acquaintance. I worry about him constantly."

"That's very thoughtful of you."

_No. It's not. Really it's not. No, don't get in..._

John leans down to get a better look inside the sedan, and his eyes rest on Anthea, appraising her face, her hands, her legs. It's like waving candy in front of a child. John apparently has a sweet tooth for shapely, aloof women. Sherlock will need to change that.

Mycroft moves his extra limb of an umbrella to make room for John next to him, but the brolly still takes up more room than is polite as John squeezes into the remaining space on the seat and shuts the door.

Sherlock suppresses a groan.

"What's this about?" John asks.

"I have concerns regarding your new-found friendship with Sherlock Holmes. I would, however, prefer that my concerns go unmentioned." He taps and spins the brolly against the floorboard for emphasis.

_Drama queen._

"We have a difficult relationship." 

"Really? I can't imagine. Mike told me about Sherlock's pesky big brother, and Sherlock mentioned you. That's you, isn't it? Sherlock told me not to get into any black sedans."

"Ah. A shame you didn't listen to him, but it appears that you don't take advice well."

"Do you often pick up your brother's friends off the street to kidnap them? Might be the crux of the problem in your relationship right there."

"My relationship with my brother is none of your concern. And Sherlock doesn't _have_ friends. My sources say that no one gets too close to John Watson. Trust issues is what _this_ says." Anthea hands him a small black book, and he opens it.

They blink. "What's that?"

"Could it be you've decided to trust my little brother of all people? Neither of you make friends easily."

"Judging from the way you meet and greet, I doubt you have many either."

Sherlock reinforces the barrier, trying not to make John say or do anything to confuse him, now of all times. Really, there is barely any need to intercede. John is holding his own exceptionally well. It's actually a bit entertaining.

"I want to enlist your help."

"Why would I ever want to help you?"

"I only require a bit of information."

"What? No. I don't spy on my friends."

"I am not asking you to do anything underhanded. Just what he's doing, who he's seeing."

"No."

They've both answered together. John has no reason to believe it's not him. Sherlock blocks again. John doesn't need help. He's steady and strong through this. He's an amazing man. How many people get to know someone else's inner self? Sherlock feels it is an honor to see him interact with his meddling arse of a big brother.

"People will warn you to stay away from him—as I do now. You should heed the warning. My brother is a dangerous man. But I can see from your left hand that is not going to happen."

Inside John Watson, Sherlock cringes. He knows what's coming next.

"Show me," says Mycroft.

John holds up our left hand to show Mycroft. It's as steady and strong as he is inside. Mycroft raises his brow as he reaches across to inspect it.

"Don't." John snatches his hand back. This time they don't speak or move as one. It's all John. Sherlock is startled as John changes his mind and tentatively holds out his hand for Mycroft to inspect. It's John's choice alone.

He touches them. Begins to turn their hand over in his before John pulls it back again.

"Steady," Mycroft observes. "Most people travel around the city and all they see are streets and shops and cars. When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield. But you didn't need him for that. You've seen it already, haven't you?"

"What's wrong with my hand." It's a statement, not a question.

"Your therapist thinks the tremor in your hand is post traumatic stress disorder. She thinks you're haunted by memories of military service."

"How do you know that? You couldn't get that off my blog. Who do you work for?"

Mycroft ignores his questions.

"Fire her. She's got it wrong way round. You're under stress right now, and your hand is perfectly still. You're not haunted by the war, Dr. Watson. You miss it."

The car pulls up to John's building and stops.

"Time to choose a side, John Watson."

"I believe I already have."

John opens the door. He's smiling as he climbs out, and Sherlock willingly follows.

______________

Once inside the flat, they shower. John's thoughts quiet and focus on his left hand, as he leisurely strokes his cock up in down with the soapy flannel. His hand is as still as it was before. They are half hard. 

There are times when, out of necessity to clear his mind, Sherlock must take himself in hand and relieve his baser instincts. He had assumed that was John's purpose, but now he realizes it is merely a distraction and John isn't doing this for release. Sherlock relaxes into the pleasure. He doesn’t need to understand it to enjoy how John’s thumb rubs across the tip of their cock through the flannel, or how he pushes the foreskin back and washes the sensitive area over and over with much more attention than is necessary to get clean. John bites their lip as they lather his bollocks and roll them around, checking them for lumps. He moans and Sherlock hopes that isn’t him.

John is done far too soon, much to Sherlock’s disappointment. He looks forward to another shower some time, when John can let himself go. It would be better yet if he fantasized about him.

After, John dries himself with a soft sky-blue towel, which meets Sherlock’s standards. In his bedroom, John throws the fluffy towel onto a chair and opens his dresser. He deftly steps into his roomy sweats, one foot after the other, then adjusts himself. He pulls on a faded black “Imagine” t-shirt with Lennon on the front. It sticks to the damp skin of their back. When they reach back to tug it down, they feel a sharp pinch. He curses under his breath as tendrils of pain shoot from their shoulder. _Most fascinating._ Sherlock likens these stinging pricks to that of a knee injury he incurred three years ago. Much like John's, his pain lingered long past the time it should have healed. Sherlock considers the scar he wears beneath his collarbone to a badge of honor. As they stand in front of the mirror, John messages the pain away with the palm of his hand.

Dressed, he pads into the kitchen to make a cuppa. Sherlock hates it without sugar, but he tolerates the bitterness for John's sake as they sip it. At least it’s hot.

Just when Sherlock thinks that barriers between them solid, that he needn't worry that he's still confusing, he finds out that it's not true.

"I still feel off," John says aloud, and rubs his temples. "What's wrong with me?"

John takes a seat on his leather couch, legs straight in front of him under the coffee table, and scrunches his toes almost the same way Sherlock often does. He picks up the remote, and turns the telly to some nonsense news programming about a thing called Brexit. He's looking for distractions, changes the channel to the Antiques Road Show, then opens his laptop and launches the browser to his blog. His eyes immediately spy Sherlock’s post. They smile.

A real distraction.

John immediately answers.

> Thank you for the congrats. I really am not much for awards, but my publisher seems to think I need to celebrate these things. I know you’d think it’d be dull bumping elbows with celebrities. 
> 
> I'd really love it if you could attend it with me.

He stares at the last sentence for a moment, then deletes it: I'd really love it if you could attend it with me. He sends the rest of the message, then gets up to fish his mobile from his trousers. Sherlock feels the grin spread to their eyes as John begins to text.

_I could use a friendly face tomorrow night. I’d be flattered if you’d come with me._

They return to the couch as he finishes his text.

_If interested, let me know. If not interested, come anyway._

_Seriously, if you can’t, I understand, but I'd sincerely love to spend more time with you._

If only he knew how much time they were already spending together, but even this isn't the same as touching him. Sherlock wishes he could answer immediately.

John waits a few minutes before he opens a document and begins to write. It’s his soldier story. Between paragraphs, John stops, checks his mobile, types again. He stops and thinks about Sherlock’s mouth.

John leads a complicated life. He dates, sleeps with a married couple, wins prestigious awards, and has a detective living part-time in his head. What harm would it do to date that same detective on top of it all?

John checks his mobile again.

After typing about treating a stomach wound, their eyes leave the laptop and travel around the room until they land on an old grandfather clock that has some sentimental value to John. Grandmother on father's side.

The time. If Sherlock is correct in his deduction, the hands on the clock indicate that he has less than an hour left inside John before he’s thrown out onto the banks of the Thames.

They yawn. They’re suddenly exhausted. Sensory input indicates that John enjoys the tactile pleasure of climbing between the warm covers and pressing his face down into the pillow.

John shakes his head as he checks his mobile again and frowns. “Probably on some crazy case,” he mumbles and drops it on the coffee table, face up beside his laptop. He closes the lid and downs the rest of the tea in one go. It’s cold and bitter and Sherlock can’t suppress the shiver.

"There it is again," John says to himself.

Sherlock berates himself. He can't seem to keep from seeping into John's consciousness. He brushes the concern off as he immerses himself in all that's John Watson. He soaks up each movement as John stands and goes to bed. He’s stiff from sitting, and their muscles are tight. The steps are shorter, choppier than he’s used to, but there’s a lift, a bounce that Sherlock doesn’t own. The balls of these feet spring him up while Sherlock’s feet slap the floor.

He takes a piss first. Sherlock is conscious of the almost careless way he handles his big cock and aims. Sherlock would love to help him take more care but holds back, keeping that wall between them as best he can. As they head to the bedroom, they tuck it back inside the cozy sweats and give it a big squeeze. _Promising._

They pull back the blanket and sheets. As their head hits the pillow, he reaches back inside his sweats and scratches his crotch with his short nails. Sherlock wants him to explore, but John sighs instead.

They've only just closed their eyes. It begins too soon. He’s in the tunnel of lights and free-falling. He lands on his shoulder with a sickening thud and squish before rolling, face splashing in the muck and rubbish that litters the banks.

The first thing Sherlock does when he stops is pull out his mobile to check his messages.

 _It’s a date,_ he texts back.

_________________________

Sherlock paces 221B. He has much to do and sleeping isn’t one of those things. He checks his mobile again. He knows John left his in the living room, but he texts a polite thank you to John for the invitation and asks for additional details.

He reads through the book he found. It’s filled with theories he doesn’t understand and has never had an inclination to understand until now. He googles so much of the scientific jargon that his eyes actually begin to sting from glaring holes into the monitor. Dark matter, Gabor transfer, and quantum physics seem more like suppositions and faux science tempered with just enough logic to place them on the fringe of plausibility.

His brain is gridlocked with too much information that he can't tie prior knowledge to. He’s not this kind of scientist. He knows his brain may never understand exactly how this works, but this book would explain it to someone whose could.

He decides that it no longer matters what Mycroft thinks or doesn’t think and takes a cab back to the NSY. There, he tidies the room and puts the shelving back, the books away. He opens up the old dinosaur of a computer and breaks into the employee records database. He's not working today, but he does find the home address for Walter Braden "Jack" Finney. After shutting back down, Sherlock takes a crate full of files under his arm and makes his way down in the elevator.

He drops the files off at 221B beforetaking a cab to Finney's home. The garden is well-kept, with pansies in the flower boxes. His large green front door is unlocked, but Sherlock knocks. When no one answers, he cautiously opens the door and steps across the threshold, calling out Finney's name. Still no answer.

The home is a step back into the 1950s, filled with the nature-inspired Scandinavian color scheme of grays and browns with muted pastels. Vinyl and chrome diningroom chairs with a black and white Formica top grace his kitchen; the floors are waxed linoleum tiles. Laminated plywood furniture pieces with clean lines, some by the revolutionary designer Charles Eames, are in his livingroom. In fact, every staple of the flat comes from original 1950s living spaces. Nothing is modern, not even the telly.

Curious. 

Nothing was amiss except for the unlocked door. Jack was most definitely not the sort to forget such an important detail. His grandchildren, on the other hand, could. Clearly, then, he left with his visiting grandchildren, who left the door unlocked behind. Sherlock leaves and locks the door. He'll speak to Jack tomorrow at the Yard. 

________________

When John picks Sherlock up, he says nothing about Mycroft. Instead it's all small talk and a bit of gossip about who's going to be rubbing elbows with whom.

"You look spectacular in that suit," John says. "I'll be the envy of everyone in the room."

Sherlock is used to such comments, but from John, the words warm his cheeks.

"You look quite dapper yourself." John's double-breasted grey pinstripe suit with a fitted sky-blue shirt made his eyes sparkle more than usual. The trousers were just tight enough to hug in all the right places.

They aren’t in the room more than two minutes before a white-haired woman with gold wire-rimmed glasses waltzes up to John, congratulating him. Sherlock recognizes her immediately from John's description.He warned him about her in the car.

“Sherlock Holmes, this is Mary Russell. Mary, this is Sherlock.”

“Your date for the evening? I must say, I’m impressed. The great detective.”

“In the flesh,” John adds.

Sherlock shrugs. To interest Sherlock in something other than pirate stories, his mum read to him from a plethora of other genres to entice him away from his obsession with the swashbuckling stories of _The Sea-Wolf_ , _Treasure Island_ , and _Billy Budd_. Amongst those horrid flights of fancy Sherlock suffered through on long winter nights were Mary Russell’s stories. Not because the core of her mysteries weren’t entertaining, but because he never could determine whether Russell wrote her protagonist as a Mary Sue for young girls who overestimated their own wits or for old white men horny to be admired for theirs. It was trivial froth for the most part. What self-respecting detective would be drawn in by youth and innocence? Jack London’s Wolf Larsen wouldn’t. He wants what Larsen would desire: the flip side. They both want age and experience. And Sherlock's idea of that is standing next to him dressed in a snugly-tailored bespoke Mark Powell suit.

John’s shoulder brushes against him and sparks fly behind Sherlock’s eyes. He’s thinking about letting John take him home to do whatever John pleases with him. He’s beginning to think this merging of minds has altered the requirements for his transport as well.

She begins to ask them about character's possible philosophies of life, referring to John’s protagonist, Martin Freeman, a self-made man with a salty past who puts his wits and cunning to use solving the unsolvable.

“ _Tabula rosa_ ideals, I say," Russell says. "What do you think, Mr. Holmes? You believe it’s filled to the brim with John Locke's philosophies, don’t you?”

“I don't know about Sherlock, but it's filled with John Locke,” John says and winks.

It’s all Sherlock can do not to bend him over in those snug trousers and shag him silly. Instead of giving in to his desires, he continues with the tedious discussion. He ignores Russell and speaks directly to John.

“John Locke's political beliefs matter little to me, but there was a time when I did consider them. Alas, but my brother Mycroft ruined politics for me when I was young," Sherlock says as he watches John closely at the mention of his brother. He sees John's eyes narrow.

"He said he agreed with me," Sherlock continues. "And I can’t abide him agreeing with me. It didn't alter how I felt, however. He claimed he believed in Locke's belief that men are naturally free and equal, but in the end, it never mattered because he lied. He believes our government knows better than puny people and to hell with natural rights.”

"Excuse us, Mrs. Russell," John says. "I should thank my agent for all his hard work helping my publisher put this celebration together for me."

"You're excused. Thank you for introducing us. Mr. Holmes? It was a pleasure."

"As it was mine," Sherlock says.

As they walk way, John scans the room, looking for his agent."What does your brother do?" John asks.

"He says he holds a minor position in the British government, but he really _is_ the British government—that is when he's not too busy being the British Secret Service or the CIA on a freelance basis."

John nods at the answer, obviously waiting for more explanation, when a braying laugh of self-satisfaction echoes from across the room. John's face falls, and it seems John Watson wants to be at the farthest point in the room from the laugh's origin. Unfortunately, the loud braying comes nearer and it belongs to a fat curly-haired Scot who is proudly declaring his propensity for lying.

John grabs Sherlock’s elbow and dodges away, heading over to John’s agent and another familiar-looking man.

“His name is Mark Gatiss,” John leans in to whisper to him. Sherlock hopes that this is an excuse to get closer and stay there. “He’s well-known in some circles for his Vesuvius Club mysteries, although now he’s doing more acting and tv scripts. Thank God, because he's so much better at that. His most recent TV appearance was actually quite brilliant: he was cast as a soldier from WWI. The other man he's with is my agent—or rather, Mark's and my agent. He’s a stand-up bloke.”

“Sherlock Holmes, at last,” Gatiss says, shaking his hand. Sherlock pictures Gatiss in uniform. Well, all the gay boys love a soldier. He’d much rather imagine John attired in WWI regalia. His blood stirs and his heart skips with the vision.

Gatiss, Sherlock thinks, has that prune-faced and tight-arsed look of the professional bureaucrat, a look he well recognizes. John’s agent, on the other hand, has an open smile and keen blue-green eyes. He’s looking at John together with Sherlock with an assessing gaze.

“I’ve heard good things about you,” Sherlock says to Gatiss, even though those good things were mere seconds ago.

“Ah, yes. I was up for the award this year, but Watson here will be taking it home instead.” Gatiss pats John on the back and leaves his hand there. Sherlock wants to slap it away. “My books were really an early vanity project. I never expected to be nominated. But John, what's this I read this morning in _The Star_ that you're writing an autobiography?"

John looks taken aback for a split second but recovers. ”You should know better than to believe anything you read in _The Star_."

“I’m John’s agent, David Tennant,” the fourth in their group says as he holds out his hand to Sherlock. He turns to Gatiss. “I believe it was your role as that WWI officer that he was referring to.”

Sherlock takes the opportunity to slide in closer to John. Gatiss needs to get the hint that John is his date. He’s not thick, so it must be intentional.

“He’d much rather be remembered for his work in television, especially now that he's focusing on literary adaptations of classic horror and mystery stories,” Tennant explains.

Gatiss slips his hand down John’s back to his waist. Sherlock frowns.

"Yeah, of course. I remember that one show you did a couple years back, the romance about the gay detective. I loved that one," John says, turning to Gatiss. 

Gatiss smiles in what looks like an attempt to be gracious and opens his mouth to speak, but John cuts him off.

"Did I hear that you were planning another series to pick up after that bittersweet last one,” John says. “Something about the detective having been in a coma for the past two series? I mean, what a perfect sort of Doctor Who way never to have to end anything but to change everything. Perfect plot gimmick!"

Gatiss removes his hand as if it’s on fire at the word gimmick. He looks even more constipated as he gazes about the room for an escape.

“There you are, Mark dear,” says a hefty blond, who arrives just in time to gather him up. She powers the two of them off in the direction of the Scot John had been avoiding earlier.

“He’s a bit bitter, but he’ll deny it to his death,” Tennant says with a boyish gleam in his eyes. “You deserved the award, my boy. Between you and me, he never would have been noticed except for his recent work on the telly.” His eyes twinkle as he looks between them. He bounces on his heels.

“Christ, David. _Ask_.” John smiles.

“Where ever did you two meet? You look absolutely gorgeous together.”

“Mutual friend,” Sherlock says, then winks at John. “Along with mutual admiration.” There are more mutuals he doesn’t add.

“That’s bloody fantastic! You two are a literary agent's love child! I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Actually, that's not possible in my case or yours since you're two people, but if I combined you both, blended you up into one, you'd be terrific."

"Oi, I _am_ terrific," John says.

"I know you are, but combined, you two would be _spectacular_." He bounces on his heels, and scans the room. "Fantastic! I see JK Rowling over there. Allons-y!" He waves them on to follow him. "You never know when she'd going to drop a few spoilers for her next story."


	9. Chapter 9

"Ta. That was fun, and it wouldn't have been without you," John says, tapping the steering wheel in time to the music.

The song was acceptable even though the lyrics were simplistic, and it seemed to Sherlock to fit the current circumstances. A woman's soulful voice was singing "you make me so very happy, I'm so glad you came into my life" with John intermittently joining in.

The tires on John's car squeal as he takes the corner too fast. "Sorry," he says, as Sherlock slides in closer to him. He's not so certain that the sharp turn wasn't intentional. "Should have taken that a bit slower."

Sherlock's face heats as he watches John's hand on the gear shift. 

"That row over the earth not going around the sun, was entertaining," John says. "I still don't believe you didn't know that or that we have a Queen not a King. Oh! I love this part..."

It's the bridge in the song. John belts out the lyrics. His voice is clear, expressive as he looks directly at Sherlock and sings. " _I love you so much, it seems/ that you're even in my dreams/ I can hear, Baby, I hear you calling me._.."

"I do know about what's important," Sherlock finally says.

"Such as the ins and outs of tobacco ash analysis?" John hums.

"That and that you only recently learned to drive."

"Got me there. Just about two years now. Never had a reason to before that, even in the military. You're not very interested in politics for someone whose brother is the British government. He must have really turned you off to the whole thing as child. If you don't mind me saying, I do agree with what Mike said about him. He is a big knob."

"I don't mind. It's true. I'm sorry you had to be subjected to him," Sherlock says.

"I should have listened to you, but it seemed like it would be a bit of an adventure. He enjoyed winding me up too much. Still, I have to admit I liked the excitement. Not every day I get abducted off the street and interrogated."

"You require an invigorating form of excitement. Would you by chance want to go out on a case with me?"

"A case? Like a murder case? Now?"

Sherlock smiles with his eyes trained out the windshield, waiting for John to take his bait. 

"Yes, a cold case. I've been working on a number of them for Detective Inspector Lestrade."

"Is it dangerous?"

"Possibly."

"Then the answer is yes. Where to?"

"Turn right up here. We're headed to Knightsbridge Chinese Restaurant."

"Murder at the Orient Express then?"

"Pardon?"

"It's a literary joke. What about background...the victim?"

"Ah, Terry Wong. He was found face down in a plate of noodles. It appeared he'd choked to death, but bruising on his face indicated he'd been attacked on the same evening of his death. The victim had never been alone that night, however, and that was confirmed by staff and customers."

"So, no opportunity for a killer."

"So it seemed. The police coroner confirmed Wong died around midnight. Everyone at the restaurant in the hour leading up to the death was questioned. The nine customers, two waiters, and two kitchen staff said he'd been alive when they'd left the establishment, and also denied seeing anyone attack him. Left at the next street."

"Any discrepancies regarding the time?"

"Nearby CCTV confirmed that each customer and member of staff left the restaurant when they said they did, between 11 p.m.and midnight. No one else seemed to have shown up afterward."

"Motive?"

"The man had more enemies than even I thought possible. Even I do not elicit animosity to such a degree."

"So, most of London hated him?"

"An exaggeration, but not far from the truth."

"Then the murder must have happened right around midnight and since nobody had seen anything, therefore..."

"Some or ALL of them were lying. Park here."

"And you think it's all."

"I know all. I did some digging online. It was easy to see if one only looked. All of them were wronged in some way by Wong. Some physically harmed, some emotionally. All met on the internet."

"They planned it all out online?"

"No. Nothing written, no planned meeting where they'd plotted, or, at least, no trace to follow online. Just stories of how they'd each been hurt by the victim.

"Then how do you prove it?" John asks, getting out of his car.

"Confession," Sherlock says, stepping along side him.

"They say it's good for the soul," John says.

"For those that have a soul." Sherlock opens the door. "After you."

It takes Sherlock little time to find one of the staff who'd worked that night. He's on break in the back alley.

"I read what Wong did to you," Sherlock says. "I understand why you took revenge. She was your sister. Wong's cruelty drove her to kill herself."

"You don't know what you're talking about," says the young man. He takes one last drag off his cigarette before flicking it past Sherlock's head.

"All of you did it together. There's safety in numbers, especially against someone so vile."

"Fuck this," he says as he bolts. John races after him, followed by Sherlock, his heart pounding. They're rushing down the alley, and the young man is knocking over bins in their path in hopes of slowing John down. Sherlock could easily end this chase, but he chooses not to. He wants it to last: watching John jump bins and race around corners is spectacular. He's as good at this as Sherlock suspected he would be. John gains ground, leaps and grabs their quarry's feet, and they both roll. He scrambles on top, holding the struggling man face down by the arms.

"Let him up," Sherlock says between gasps.

John does as he says, but wedges one arm up between the mans shoulderblades and pulls. Perfect control. Sherlock blinks.

"Hold still. I am an army doctor. That means I can break every bone in your body while naming them."

This is better than Sherlock could ever have anticipated. John Watson the soldier... and the doctor. He's tempted to seek more of John in action, but he can't. At least not with this case only a convenient distraction.

"Let him go."

John eyes get wider, he's still panting, "What?"

"He's been through enough. Wong got what he deserved. Let him go."

John doesn't let him up immediately. He catches his breath some more, before he lets go and stands. The lad doesn't wait for explanations. He leaps up and dashes down the alley.

"Not sure why I just chased him, then," John says, brushing off his trousers.

Sherlock steps closer. "After reading some of what Wong had done, I think that justice was served."

"Odd sort of justice. Is that up to you?"

"Really, there is no way for me to prove it without a confession."

"You're impressed!" John takes two steps and his shoes are touching Sherlock's. "You're impressed that he and the others pulled it off."

John's eyes fix on Sherlock's mouth. His hands reach for the lapels on his Belstaff, and John tugs him down to be able to reach his lips. Being on the outside is just as good as being on the inside. Sherlock's legs liquify and he melts into a molten puddle at John's feet.

"And the case is a mere six," Sherlock says when John unlocks their lips.

"Bloody hell, Mike said you rated your cases. Tell me how you rate this." John kisses him again. He opens his mouth and sucks on Sherlock's tongue.

Sherlock thinks the kiss is a ten, but keeps the thought to himself. John Watson is obviously some sort of hitherto undiscovered type of sex god. No need to let him know he has won over another devoted follower.

Without coming up for air, they walk backwards until Sherlock's back is firmly against the building. John's sexual genius aligns them perfectly, and Sherlock's penis appreciates that attention to detail. In fact they're appreciating each other so much as they're snogging that they forget where they are for a time.

"Excuse me," says an older gentleman. "That's my door you're humping against."

John jumps back, pulling Sherlock along with him. The gentleman clears his throat and steps past them to unlock his door. "Good evening," he says.

"I guess we should get back to my car."

Sherlock agrees. John trots along, leading the way. Sherlock couldn't recall having ever admired a man's bum until that moment, but jogging behind John produces simply pornographic inspiration for what he'd enjoy doing with said bum.

They stumble into the car and John kisses him briefly but pulls away. "Not on the street." Still, he rewards him by resting his hand on Sherlock's thigh between shifting gears.

"My place or yours?"

"Yours is closer."

"Mine it is."

Sherlock's wonders what he thinks he's doing going to the man's flat to have sex. It seems so... It seemed like a good idea not two seconds ago, but now that he's coming down from the intoxicating effect of touching John Watson, he's having second thoughts. The longer he's with John the more attached he's becoming. Is that a good thing? He's not sure, considering he's been inside the man's mind more than once. What would John do if he knew what was really happening to him?

"Even if it was only a six, that was the most fun I've had since...well...forever."

"Since the war. That was what you were going to say."

"Yes, I was. How do you do that? It's brilliant."

"Deduction. Simple deduction."

One compliment sets his heart all aflutter. What is wrong with him? Sherlock comes to the conclusion that being inside this man has fundamentally changed him into...what? Someone who wants connection instead of rejecting it?

"You are a bloody gorgeous and dangerous man, you know that?" John asks."What's your secret?"

Sherlock blinks. Secret? Confession might be said to be good for the soul, but there are secrets here that he can't reveal no matter what the consequences to his soul. John would either never understand, or, if he did, hate him. Sherlock couldn't bear to have John hate him.

"No secret. As I said, it's all science. The science of deduction."

"Deduce this." John leans over fast and gives Sherlock another one of those earth shaking kisses. Sherlock's stomach drops to his knees as John's tongue explores his mouth.

Not good. This isn't good. Why is he falling so hard so fast for this man? There has to be some scientific explanation. Can it possibly all be due just to the connection between their minds?

Just when Sherlock's about to tell John to take him home, John's palm falls back onto his thigh and moves up his leg. All thought of leaving abandons him. John wants him, and he wants John. It's suddenly very simple.

Or not. But he'll think about that later when John's thumb isn't rubbing the head of his penis.

John parks in the garage behind his building. Before they get out, he gives Sherlock the most wicked grin.

"How often do you have cases?" They walk toward the elevator where another couple is already waiting. A young woman with an older man. An affair, but one of long standing. His marriage is one of convenience, for mutual gain; the affair, one of the heart.

"It's sporadic and, as I've mentioned before, I do rate them. I generally don't leave my flat for less than a seven."

"So you took the six because, why? You thought it'd entertain me?" The elevator door opens, and all four of them step in.

"Yes. It included unusual circumstances and was most impressive to pull off with the number of people involved. It's generally the rule that the more people who know of a crime, the more likely it is for someone to come foreward. It may still happen, but I doubt it in this case."

John slips in closer to Sherlock. The elevator stops and the couple gets out. Sherlock expects John to take this opportunity to kiss him again. He does not. Sherlock turns to look at John, who is frowning.

"Damn," John says. "Not again."

"John?"

The elevator opens and John hesitates. He seems unsure of himself. Sherlock follows him. They're at John's door, where he fumbles for the keys.

"Bloody hell," John says. The door opens and John steps forward, stiff legged. He walks into the room, looking around as though he suspects something is off. "Want a drink?" he asks distractedly.

"Tea would be nice," Sherlock says. He follows John to the kitchen where he mechanically starts the water, reaches into his cupboard, and sets two cups on the counter. He turns to Sherlock about to speak, but instead frowns.

"John, is something wrong?"

"I just haven't been myself lately. I was feeling fine earlier, but now, it seems to be back." John pours the tea and puts in the bags. "Sugar. Three."

Sherlock is pleased he remembers.

John moves stiffly into the living room and Sherlock follows, growing more and more concerned. He strolls over to the bookcase. There he finds what he had wondered about. A book authored by Doyle. He pulls it off the shelf.

"Interesting selection," Sherlock muses.

"That? A friend gave it to me years ago. I really only skimmed through it. Not really my thing."

"Yes. I wouldn't think so," Sherlock slips the book back into its place on the shelf. Then he spies the box with the ring on it on a lower shelf.

John immediately notices that Sherlock has seen it. Sherlock picks up the box and opens it.

"What's this? A ring. In your size." Sherlock snaps the lid shuts and John jumps again.

"It's a long story. The extraordinary lengths people go to for..."

"Murder," Sherlock interrupts.

"Murder?" John repeats, confused.

"Sorry, did I say 'murder'? I meant to say marriage—but, you know, they're quite similar procedures when you think about it. The participants tend to know each other, and it's over when one of them's dead."

"I suppose that's one way to look at it." John sits down on the couch, watching Sherlock pace back and forth.

"In all fairness, murder is typically over a lot quicker." Sherlock spins around. He thinks he's made his point, however awkward. His attention turns to John, who looks paler and more drawn than before. A raised eyebrow poses his question.

"I think I may be going insane," John admits, and covers his face with his hands.

A cold chill passes down Sherlock's spine. He drops the velvet box back onto the bookshelf and strides over. John startles as Sherlock throws himself onto the couch next to him.

Sherlock pries John's hands from his face. Sherlock feels his confusion. "John, tell me what's wrong."

"I wish I knew," John says. His attention falters as he gazes at Sherlock's lips. He licks his own.

Sherlock grasps John's hand and John smiles, wrapping his other arm around Sherlock's waist to pull him flush against him. Sherlock closes his eyes and kisses him.

Sherlock's eyes fly open as John jumps and bites Sherlock's lip. It's bleeding.

"Ouch."

But it's John who yells and whose eyes grow wide at the blood on Sherlock's lip. "Oh, God! I'm sorry! This is exactly what I mean. It's like something or someone else has taken over my body."

"A mystery of sorts," Sherlock concludes, although he knows very well what the problem is.

"I'm afraid I'm not very suitable company just now. As much as I want to, you know...God! I can't even say what I want to say. It's like the words cramp up inside me and won't come out."

"That is perplexing. Do you think might be coming down with the flu?" Sherlock presses his hand against John's forehead, and he jerks back as if he's been stung by a bee.

"No, that's not it. Doctor, remember. I'll be fine. It comes and goes. I..."John squeezes his eyes shut. "I may be overstimulated."

Sherlock stands up abruptly. "I think I should leave then."

"Dammit, this is not how I wanted tonight to end."

"Nor I, but I hope there will be others." Sherlock stands and takes his time picking up his coat off a nearby chair. "Text me, please."

At the door, he turns and looks back to see John still on the couch. Sherlock knows exactly what's happening inside him right now and wishes he could change it all. He wishes he'd never crawled through that tunnel and hurt John this way. But there's no going back. Not now. As he closes the door carefully behind him, he gets one last glimpse of John on the couch, unmoving, his head in his hands.

He almost hails a cab to take him back to NSY, but decides to make his way to the banks of the Thames and wait instead.

\-------------------

He's holding his Belstaff above himself as a makeshift shelter while he observes the traffic floating down the Thames. It's cold and raining and miserable. Sherlock knows he may be waiting for more than five hours. Six hours was approximately the time he remained inside John. He's not even sure that someone else would be spit out in the same spot as he was. All he knows is that someone is inside John right now, and he suspects he knows who.

He's fishing a nicotine patch from his coat when a blinding light appears not more than ten feet above him. A body tumbles out of the sky onto the ground and rolls down the bank.

He stands and pulls his coat back on as the body rolls past his feet.

Seeing red? Isn't thats what it's called when a person is so angry, they're blinded by the feeling? He understands in that moment why a person is 4.4 times more likely to be killed by a family member.

"You!" Sherlock grabs his lapels and pulls him to his feet. And hits him, hard, landing right on a cheekbone.

"Was that necessary?" Mycroft asks, cupping the already-bruising side of his face as blood from his split skin trickles down onto his lips.

"Yes. Don't talk. Don't say anything else."

"Really, Sherlock? How often have I told you that..."

"Caring isn't an advantage? Too often. What does Geoff say about that? I'm sure he doesn't agree. I'm certain you don't even believe it yourself."

"Kind of you to wait for me here. I hope the wait wasn't too onerous."

"No, it was short. Threw you out of his head, didn't he? How does it feel to be mentally bested by an army doctor?" 

"That is not the reason."

"I don't agree. It's a case of organ rejection." Sherlock laughs out loud at his bad joke and at Mycroft, covered from head to toe in mud with blood smeared on his face.

"I should thank the man for not having a compatible brain. His thoughts were positively obscene, and your extreme territoriality? You hardly had to resort to violence, little brother."

"No? Now, we both have matching bloody lips. You bit me! I think that's a fair trade," Sherlock says. "Call one of your minions and on the way to wherever you're planning to wash that mess off, you can explain the real reason why you sentenced me to that room. If you explain it very well, I won't hit you again."


	10. Chapter 10

"Sherlock, there are some government secrets even I am not allowed complete access to. This is one." Mycroft takes out a handkerchief, and wipes the mud from his hands, then delicately removes his mobile with his thumb and index finger from his inside coat pocket. He raises a brow as he selects the proper contact from his directory. "Yes, Anthea, I am fine." He pauses, looks down at his coat, trousers, and shoes. His frown deepens." Please send the car to this location immediately."

"You were following orders?" Sherlock says. "I don't believe it. That little trip inside John's mind was part of the orders?"

"I assure you it was not planned," Mycroft says, slipping his mobile back inside his coat pocket. "I was merely following the clues you had left behind. You were very sloppy, by the way. I had no intention of crawling inside the passageway. At first glance it seemed non-threatening until I noticed the pulsations. It's as if the very tunnel breathed and drew me on. I crawled inside, inspecting it more closely. Suddenly I was catapulted down. I had no inkling I would end up inside someone else's mind. The experience was for the most part, remarkable, although it's not something I should ever wish to repeat."

"Who else knows? Oh, don't answer that since you're going to pretend you don't know the answer. Classified government information, top-secret British Intelligence clearance. Blah, blah, blah."

"The car should be here quite soon." Mycroft tries to climb up the bank but his shoes slip in the mud with every step. Sherlock refuses to help. Out of breath, Mycroft finally takes a seat a few feet up the bank. He always needs to look down on everyone, Sherlock thinks, even if he's only on a pile of mud.

"Does Greg know about this?"

"Greg's only thought was for you to reindex the files. He said that you were the perfect person for the job, but you'd never do it without the proper incentive. I needed a way for you to get into the room. It was perfect."

"I thought as much."

"I was called upon by the one person I could never refuse, who took me into Their confidence and told me about that room."

It began to drizzle. Sherlock shook it off. "No umbrella? How unfortunate. Tell me who and I'll help you up this mountain of muck."

"I simply cannot reveal Their identity, no matter how infantile your jibes," Mycroft says. "I can climb up this bank myself."

Mycroft tries to stand again, but keeps slipping. Sherlock folds his arms and watches. After his third attempt, Mycroft sits back down, frowning at the Thames behind Sherlock.

"You do not grasp the true gravity of this situation. If not for the impeccable source of this story, it would seem impossible: a room that has moved about and changed repeatedly through history. A mythic place, if you will, hardly something tangible, yet there it was on this make-shift seventh-and-a-half floor in NSY. What was it? Why was it? Were there secrets within that could be deemed a national threat?"

Sherlock sighs impatiently. Mycroft is finally giving him some information he can work with, but he's not about to give him the satisfaction of knowing that.

"I could hardly send my men in and draw official attention to it," Mycroft counters. "When I was told where the room was, I determined that you would be able to solve its mysteries once I'd simply gotten you there. I admit that I was mildly surprised at the speed with which you found the entrance."

"Of course I found it! And as for threats, it's only a threat to the person whose mind you've entered. And that is John Watson. Not unless you're suggesting that it could be used to..."

"Enter others at will? You obviously see the danger in that. Imagine being able to get inside the Prime Minister or the President of the United States and what might happen then."

"I'd rather not. Despite finding how to locate the tunnel, you'd need to understand it to control it, refocus and aim it, and I don't see how that's possible. Even if it were possible, no. That level of power should not be in anyone's hands."

Sherlock needs this to stop. He can't let anyone else go into John. He'd not considered the lasting damage that might be done. He'd known John was visibly upset, but he didn't realize until tonight the extent of the mental anguish he'd caused. It's not generally in his nature to consider the feelings of others and he acknowledges that its rather a new concept for him. _No one_ should go inside that passage. Not himself and especially not his brother. When he thinks about his brother inside John, it feels like he's defiling them both.

"Mycroft, you must keep this secret. You're good at keeping secrets. No one should ever know," Sherlock says, climbing up next to Mycroft. "Protect John and protect England. Keep this to yourself."

"I am obligated to report back."

"To the one person you could never refuse? I thought that was Lestrade."

Sherlock spreads his coattails beneath himself and sits down next to his brother. "This process has already affected John's mental health. Having indiscriminate people jump into his head could damage him beyond repair. This ends now. No experiments, no tests. I'd destroy that damnable passageway myself, but I don't know what repercussions it might have for him. Besides, who would even believe this is all possible?"

"Who indeed?" Mycroft repeats, eyes burrowing into his brother's.

"Give them a lie. That's what you usually do anyway. Invent a story more plausible."

Mycroft sighed. "The lengths I go to for you! A lie is possible, but I will not keep it from..."

"Who? Who could you possibly not want to keep from....oh, I know one person. Your husband. What would he say if he knew you were playing god with other people's lives?"

"Please, Sherlock. I do it that every day."

"I don't think he'd feel the same if he knew this."

  
"As you said, the impossibility of the situation. Greg would never believe you."

"He doesn't need to. I only need to show him."

"Very well. If you help me up this slippery bank, I will consider it as a favor to you."

"Oh, yes, a favor to me," Sherlock says, giving him a hand. "When you are the one who owes me a favor after putting me into the center of one of your plots."

Mycroft stands but begins to slip backward. Sherlock grabs both of his brother's arms and pulls him up, groaning theatrically. "I do believe you've been cheating on your diet again."

"And I believe you need to reevaluate your attachment to John Watson."

Sherlock lets go and watches his brother slide backwards, arms windmilling to keep his balance. He manages to stay upright, to Sherlock's regret, but he is heartened again when Mycroft begins to slowly slip backwards down the bank.

Mycroft's downward slide stops a few feet from the bottom. "I am certain you have considered what might happen if John Watson were to find out the real reason for his confusion."

"I won't help you get up the bank unless you promise keep John Watson safe."

"Sherlock, you are being childish."

"I am?" Sherlock crosses his arms and looks down on him. "Very well, I am. So what? Keep what you know to yourself. Promise it on the King's life."

"Sherlock. Oh, very well. On the King's life I promise it. Now help me up."

"That was easy. Take off your shoes."

"I will not."

"Then you're not getting up this bank—not in those shoes."

"There could be needles, broken glass. Oh, yes, very well. The things I sacrifice for God and Country." Mycroft fumes as he removes both shoes. He takes one carful step forward after another and climbs the bank.

Sherlock slides down the bank and gives his brother his arm.

When they reach the top, a black sedan is idling at the side of the highway, its flashers blinking.Standing on the curb, Anthea briefly looks up at them from her texting.

"I wondered how long it would be before you took off your shoes," she says to Mycroft as she pockets her mobile and opens the door.

________________

Sherlock is surprised by how quickly his brother cleans up and puts on a new suit—posh, even by Mycroft's standards. It takes longer to change sedans, since Mycroft adamantly refuses to sit back on the same seat until it has been scrubbed, disinfected, and shampooed.

Of course, Mycroft isn't taking his brother back to Baker Street—they are headed toward NSY. 

Which is good. Sherlock has more questions, but he doesn't want Anthea or the driver privy to any more information than necessary. Too many people already know too much.

Curious. No one at the NSY security seems to think it odd that Mycroft is coming in this late at night. They must be accustomed to his lordship coming in to visit his beloved at all hours.

When they step off the elevator at the seventh-and-a-half floor, Sherlock immediately realises that something is seriously amiss. The door is ajar, and when they step inside the office, it's confirmed: Lestrade's coat is on the desk next to Mycroft's umbrella.

His stomach drops. Mycroft was thrown out of John not because John rejected him,

Sherlock had no idea that Mycroft could move so fast.

"How long?" Mycroft blurts out in a panic. He's already pushing back the door of the passageway.

"Six hours. Mycroft, no! Don't go in there." Sherlock grabs his feet and pulls, but Mycroft is half inside the doorway and clawing at the floor to get farther.

"I need to get him out," Mycroft calls back, kicking at Sherlock to get free. "He's in here and unconscious. How long has it been?"

"At least two hours since you landed on the bank."

"Let go! I can reach him. I can see his feet. I'm going to pull him out."

"No!" Sherlock shouts, struggling to keep Mycroft in place. "Leave him there. We don't know what it will do to him or to John if we remove someone from the passage. That tunnel is living tissue and has something to do with the transfer. If you pull him out this way, it could be fatal to them both."

"He probably saw my body and crawled inside then..." Mycroft pants as he crawls backwards out of the doorway.

"Greg pushed you out by going inside. And now we've got yet another person inside him. John!"

"You are worried about John when my husband is unconscious in some sort of living alien womb?"

"Alien? When did aliens come into this? No. He should be as fine as you were and I was. But John—what is this doing to John?"

Sherlock stands up and paces, trying to sort his thoughts. The upside is that Greg's experience with stress as a DI and his moral compass would tip the scales in John's favor. The downside is that John is probably overwhelmed.

"There's nothing much we can do for the next few hours except stay here and monitor Lestrade's body until we can go pick him up off the banks in about four hours," Sherlock concludes.

"You should go visit Dr. Watson and monitor the situation from there."

"I have no idea whether my presence would be desired or welcome."

"Since when, little brother, have you cared about either?" Mycroft asks. "I won't move Greg. I shall stay here and wait."

__________________

In the cab, Sherlock texts and then calls. John responds to neither. He's certain he saw John leave his mobile in the living room. He doesn't think John would leave his flat this time of night, especially not in his state of mind—whoever that might be. Hopefully, he's asleep and dreaming.

It's far too easy to get access into the building. He needs to tell John. The security is horrendous and the code to the front door is evident by the numbers worn on the touchpad. The security officer on duty is asleep at his desk.

Sherlock knocks at John's door. When he doesn't answer, Sherlock punches in the code he'd seen John use earlier that evening.

He quietly shuts the door behind himself, but there's a click: the hammer on a gun being pulled back. The lights come on and there, not six feet in front of him, stands John Watson pointing a service revolver at Sherlock's chest.

"Fuck! Sherlock? What are you doing breaking into my flat at three in the morning?" John says in a panic, lowering the gun. "I could have bloody shot you!"

"I didn't wish you a proper goodbye."

"What? No. People don't do this. They don't break into other people's homes."

"I do. Quite frequently."

John shakes his head, and pulls his robe together tighter. He's wearing those grey sweatpants that hang low on his waist.

"Really, Sherlock. Why are you here?"

"I think you should sit down." He does need to sit down. He's most distracting with that much skin on exhibition. And Lestrade's inside him. His brother's husband. A bit not good.

John continues shaking his head in disbelief. "I'm not going to like this, am I?"

"No, I have calculated that there is a 98.3% chance that you are not. Nonetheless, I can no longer in good conscience keep this from you. I can't allow you to go on thinking you are going mad. You are not."

"What are you talking about?" John asks, walking toward the couch.

"The voices in your head. They are real voices and they all belong to someone else. Me for one."

John barks out a laugh. Then he turns back around and wipes his forehead off with the bottom of his dressing gown.

Sherlock takes one long stride and he's less than an inch from John's face. He cocks his head, their eyes locked. "Greg? Can you hear me?"

John drops the gun to the floor and leaps backward."You're bloody mad, is what you are!"

"No, John, I'm not. I've been inside you."

"If we'd had sex, believe me, I'd remember."

"I don't mean inside like that! I mean inside you here." Sherlock steps back into John's space and taps the side of John's head.

John's eyes roll back, and he begins to pitch forward. Sherlock thinks he's passing out, but when Sherlock tries to catch him, John pushes him away. His head snaps back as if he's been slapped.

"Who is Gregory Lestrade?" he asks, trepidation in his voice. "And why is he whispering inside my head?"

"There's a bookcase," Sherlock begins.

"A bookcase?" John repeats. "We're talking about my head, Sherlock, not the bloody public library!"

"And behind it, there is a door which leads to a most unusual passageway."

John laughs mirthlessly. "You're not serious."

"The transference into your mind occurs inside the passageway. That person's consciousness remains inside you for approximately six hours until they're spit out, back in their own body again, onto a spot on the banks of the Thames that is almost visible from your window."

"You've got to be bloody barmy. That wouldn't even make a decent plot for a science fiction story!"

"That may well be, but I am also telling the truth."

"Oh, god, I need to sit down."

"I did suggest you do that."

Sherlock carefully follows behind John as he stumbles to the couch and falls onto it. Sherlock kneels in front of him between his legs. It's hard for him to concentrate with John open to him like this, but Sherlock shoves down his desires. He honestly doesn't understand what's happening. He's never experienced this kind of uncontrollable attraction for another person before this.

"Please tell me this is some sort of joke," John says, the pained confusion visible behind his eyes.

Sherlock feels his own insides turn over with John's unhappiness. "It's not. I am sorry, John."

"How do you even know all this, unless...no, it's just impossible."

"The ring on the bookcase. You were proposed to yesterday. That is why you didn't want to open your door. They've been asking you for an answer that you've not yet decided to give."

"You deduced all that from picking up and looking at that ring?"

"Yes and no. Yes, I deduced they've been calling you, but no, I already knew about the ring because I was there when they proposed."

"What?"

"You're making a mistake if you agree to this relationship. Entanglements are tenuous with one party, but a couple? And that doesn't even account for—"

"Wait! You said couple. How did you know that?"

"I told you. I was there. Inside you. It was most troubling. All that touching and kissing and declarations of affection. Women...not my area..."

"You spied on us when we had sex?!"

"We. That is the proper pronoun."

"I think you should leave."

"I'm sorry, but no, I'm not leaving. I'm waiting here until he's gone."

"Who's gone?"

"Detective Inspector Lestrade. The man who is inside you right now. Talk to me Geoff."

"This isn't some bloody seance! Fuck off, Sherlock." John face grows pale, and he begins to slump forward. "Holy shite, he said what I just said!"

Sherlock unwinds himself from off the floor and eases next to John on the couch, being certain to leave enough space between them so as not to make him feel even more invaded.

"What the fuck is happening to me?" John sits up straight, eyes darting around the room until they land on Sherlock.

"I'm sorry, but I'm not sure who's talking. John or Geoff? I don't want to frighten either of you, but I want you both to know that neither of you is going insane."

"That's a bloody comfort." John—Greg—rubs his temple. "I need a drink."

"I don't think alcohol is the wisest choice at the moment." Sherlock holds his breath as John stands up on shaky legs.

"I really don't care what you think." John manages to stomp across the room to his bar and pull down a bottle of whiskey off an upper shelf along with two tumblers. He fills them both, splashing some of the whiskey on his hands and counter, then throws the first one back, then the second. He pours them again as Sherlock watches.

"I'm drinking for two," he says, then snorts out a laugh as he takes another shot. "Something is making me talk; something is making me move. Someone? This is terrifying."

"It's my brother-in-law."

"Oh, God, yeah, let's keep it in the family." John blurts out. "First Mycroft, then me. That's right, isn't it?" John slaps his hand over his mouth. "What? Why are you looking at me like that?" he mumbles, and tears form in John's eyes. "I'm not talking. That's not me."

Sherlock feel helpless. " _John_."

He stumbles toward Sherlock, and Sherlock embraces him, his head tucked under Sherlock's chin. John stiffens in his arms, and looks up at Sherlock.

"I'm getting dressed, and you're taking me to see that damned passageway or what ever it is."

"I don't think that would be wise." Sherlock chews his lip.

"Probably not, but we're doing it anyway."


	11. Chapter 11

"I fail to see why you would complicate matters by bringing him here." Mycroft shakes his head in disapproval.

Sherlock briefly shifts his attention to his brother while John ignores Mycroft's words. 

"He needs to see it for himself," Sherlock snaps back. Sherlock turns his attention back to John. From where he and John knelt on the floor, Sherlock can just see inside the passageway as John shines Sherlock's mobile.

"You could have tidied the room a bit. Stacked the books while you waited," Sherlock says, waving Mycroft back away from them.

Sherlock helps John pivot the mobile's light at Lestrade's body. He's not far inside, and it's evident to Sherlock that there really is no incline into some abyss. In fact, it no longer looks like the psychedelic maelstrom he last remembers. Instead it's the deadened passageway he saw the first time he looked.

"But that's just one other entry on the list of things that you'd never dirty your hands doing," Sherlock quips.

"As if you ever pick up after yourself."

The walls and floors are not normal, however, and it's evident to Sherlock that the doctor in John recognizes living tissue when he cautiously touches it.

"What would happen if I went inside?" John asks, looking at Sherlock, eyes steady.

"No," Mycroft says from directly behind them. "Absolutely not. You are not to endanger my Gregory in any way."

"It's my head that's being invaded," John stresses, "and Gregory's inside it, in case you've forgotten. I sure as hell can't forget. He's rattling away, and what he's saying isn't very nice."

"And what exactly is he saying?" Mycroft asks.

"Fuck off, dear." John winces as he stands.

"Shouldn't you be sitting in the mud waiting for your beloved?" Sherlock asks. "I see you have the proper foot attire this time."

"We have over an hour before that should happen," Mycroft says, eyes cooly assessing John Watson.

John rolls his eyes as he flops down on the green settee.

"Explain this place," John orders.

John's tense shoulders tell Sherlock how tired he is, yet he sits at attention to frown and scan the room from the settee.

Sherlock ducks down to slide into the chair behind his desk. He's not happy to explain his actions—especially in front of his brother—but he owes it to John. He must regain John's trust. He launches into great detail about how he came upon the tunnel through the book's clue and his discoveries once inside it. He even goes so far as to describe to John, and consequently Mycroft, his experiences once he'd joined with John's brain.

Despite the lowered brows, red face, and pulsing veins in his neck, John doesn't interrupt, nor does Mycroft for that matter. When Sherlock is done, though, Mycroft adds: "Your experience was much like mine."

John remains silent and Sherlock knows he's struggling to contain his anger. He's relieved when John finally speaks.

"Something doesn't make sense..." John huffs out. "You said you're been inside me, what? Three times? Your brother once and now DI Lestrade. But there was one other time..."

Sherlock leaps from his chair and bangs his head on the ceiling with a resounding crack. "Other time? Recently? When?"

"It was Sunday afternoon. I remember because that was by far the worst of all of them. I was sure I was going absolutely bonkers. I had this uncontrollable urge to listen to the soundtrack of "Momma Mia." I helplessly rifled through my mobile and laptop searching for something and had absolutely no clue what I was so desperate to find...and then it got even more weird. It was like I was all thumbs, my hands were being moved for me but as though I'd forgotten how to move them. Then I went into the bedroom and..."

Mycroft stares at John perplexed as Sherlock races around the room closely examining the shelves, the floor, the desk. Sherlock listens as he searches.

"What else?" Mycroft asks.

"I went to the mirror and began to touch myself," John says, blushing.

Sherlock bolts upright on the floor and swallows hard.

"Well, at first that," John admits, stuttering a bit. "I felt like a damn puppet the whole time. My hands were all clumsy, and fumbling—not like I usually...anyway...it occurred to me I might be having a stroke. I went to call an ambulance, but I couldn't do it."

Both men silently stare back at him.

"Most distressing," Mycroft finally says.

Sherlock shivers as he silently agreed with his brother. It must have been terrifying for John. He turns back to inspecting the room. There has to be something...

He's is crawling on the floor near the bookcase when he stops and holds up something invisible between his fingers.

"What is it?" John gets up to stand next to him.

"A long, red hair!"

"No..." John says, starting to turn his head to the side and flare his nostrils. "It's not."

"Kitty Riley," Sherlock spits out venomously. He immediately pulls out his mobile, forgetting in the moment that he has no reception in the room.

"That's how she knew about my autobiography," John snarls. "She wrote that article in _The Star_? Why of course she did."

Sherlock berates himself for not thoroughly inspecting the room before this. He should have immediately noticed that someone else had been here. "I need to go up on the roof to get a signal. Mycroft, you're the British government. Pull some strings, pick her up, have her mind wiped, something." Sherlock dashes out of the office.

He watches the bars increase as he climbs the stairs. He's finally got a fairly good connection and goes online to check _The Star_. A few moments more and he has Riley's article on John Watson up. He doesn't like what he's reading. Not only does she have the scoop on the autobiography, it seems she's also put Sherlock and John into some sort of love triangle with that Mary Morstan actress he encountered the first time he was inside John. Most of what she's written is pure fabrication, but there are enough details to know that she used what she'd gleaned from John's mobile and laptop when she hijacked John's body.

He spins around and races back down the stairs. Mycroft waits in the doorway.

"My car is waiting. I would appreciate it if you could watch Gregory for me and I, in turn, will have Miss Riley picked up immediately. We may have to resort to retconning her."

John laughs. "Retcon? That's not real. That's from the telly—Torchwood, Doctor Who stuff."

"Where do you think those people get their ideas?"

"John, sit back down. It will be fine."

"Fine?! _Fine_? Nothing will ever be fine again. There's a passageway leading into my head that any Tom, Dick, or Harry can climb into and take over my body like some puppetmaster pulling my strings and you think it will be _fine_?"

"It's time that I should leave," Mycroft says, picking up his umbrella and Greg's coat. "I will make certain proper security is in place so that no one will be able to come to this floor again without proper authorization. I will call you. Please answer when I do."

"We'll find a way to stop it," Sherlock replies to John. The elevator pings its arrival, and he can hear Mycroft's umbrella tapping toward it. He follows on John's heels as he paces the room, which is daunting: John doesn't need to crouch.

"We'll have the entire floor quarantined and block the room and passageway up so no one can ever..."

"I trusted you," John says, gritting his teeth and turning on him. "What was I? Some grand experiment, some tangled mystery to solve? I heard _your_   story. You were inside me, and you liked it so much you did it not once but three times!"

"It wasn't the experience. I did it because I liked you." Sherlock steps back to give John room. Also, he's pretty certain John is about to punch him.

"So you thought, what? You'd get an inside advantage? How to get into the heart of Dr. John H. Watson? You didn't need to do that! I liked you well enough without...oh, hell. How do I even know who or what you are? The whole time— _the whole time_ —you were _climbing_ around inside my brain. How can I possibly trust you after that?" John is smiling, but there's nothing of mirth in it.

Sherlock moves further out of his reach, over to the passageway, where he kneels down and shines his mobile inside.

"For that very reason, John. You should trust me. I do know you from the inside. I know you completely. You are the best and wisest man I've ever known."

He sees that Lestrade is still in place. "What have you decided?" Sherlock asks.

"That you're a fucking git who knows sod all about relationships."

"I wasn't referring to myself, I was referring to that marriage proposal."

"That has nothing—and I mean nothing—to do with you. But just in case, know this: before all this body swapping shite, I wouldn't have hesitated to say yes. It was you inside me that made me doubt myself."

"It wasn't me."

"I'm going to do it."

"You will not."

"Excuse me, but I don't think that's up to you."

"I rather thought you liked me."

Sherlock continues watching Lestrade, but hears John step next to him and kneel beside him. "We've only known each other a few days. I've known them for years," he says to Sherlock quietly.

"And how well do you really know them? I haven't known you long, but I've seen the person you are on the inside and outside. I don't make friends easily. But I enjoy spending time with you."

"None of this ist actually about you, but I've noticed that you have a hard time grasping that point. Oh, God, I've got to sit down." John's arse hits the floor where he's next to him.

"That man in there, Greg Lestrade, what's he like?"

"An excellent detective, a superior leader, and a very good man."

"And your brother's husband." John crossed his legs.

"We can't all be perfect."

John barks out a laugh. "I think that was him laughing too," John admits.

"Hello, Greg," Sherlock says, waving in John's face.

"That's not funny." John presses his lips together as his eyes track back onto the man inside the tunnel.

"I wasn't trying to be funny—I was merely acknowledging Greg's presence."

"It's confusing for him. He doesn't know what to do. Neither do I."

"I do. I think you should forgive me."

"Forgive you? I want to punch you in the face."

"If I let you punch me in the face will you forgive me and not get married?"

"No."

"Then, I'd prefer that you didn't punch me in the face."

"Something's happening," John says, his voice dropping to a whisper.

Sherlock thrusts his arm inside and flashes the mobile's torch directly on Greg's form. "I don't see any movement."

"No, not in there, you berk, in my head. Something's happening. I can feel it." John brows are pinched as he rubs his temples with his fingers.

"John, look! He's vanishing. He's..." Sherlock mouth drops open. "Gone."

John's mouth is open, his breathing labored. "David bloody Copperfield."

"I fail to see what a literary character has to do with..."

"Not the character. He's an illusionist. He makes things vanish."

Sherlock begins to go inside to investigate but John pulls him back. "I just wanted to check," Sherlock explains. "How do you feel?"

John is so close. It's pleasing and somehow comforting to him.

"Like I'm finally the _only_ one left inside me."

Sherlock wishes he could change that on a more intimate level, but doubts such a suggestion would meet with John's approval just now. In fact, he's concerned that after what he's learned tonight, John may never want that from Sherlock. Ever. He could even go ahead and marry that... _couple_.

"I feel like I should guard this place myself to make sure no one ever comes in. We should at least shut the door."

"And put the bookcase together."

"Nail the door shut?"

John looks at Sherlock's clear disagreement. "Okay, maybe not until we know more about what's going on."

Together they pick up the shelves and books and reassemble it all.

"You were thinking of me." Sherlock has one of Doyle's books in his hand.

"Hmm?"

"When you were having intercourse with them, you were thinking of me."

"That's exactly what I mean! What the bloody fuck? People don't say those things. Don't you have an edit button?"

"I don't, but it's true. You shouldn't marry them if you were thinking of someone else instead."

"I can't believe your nerve." John is shaking his head so hard that Sherlock suspects his brains are rattling.

"You could kiss me again and find out."

"No, I won't kiss you again and find out. This isn't a bloody experiment."

Sherlock's chest heaves and his nostrils quiver. He thinks he may be dying.

"I don't know what to do with this." Sherlock points to his chest and taps it. "I don't know what to say except that I am sorry." Sherlock's limbs feel rubbery, and he drops down onto the settee. 

John crosses his arms and sighs. He tips his head up at the ceiling, closing his eyes in resignation.

"The first time it was exciting, being inside you, exploring you," Sherlock admits, his voice barely a whisper. "Don't you understand? People _bore_ me. People are _idiots_. But not _you_. The moment my consciousness touched yours, I experienced something I'd never felt before. I was at home. I felt happy. I've never felt that, not even as a child."

"Dear Lord Above, how do you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Make me want to strangle you and hug you at the same time?"

"I'm a genius."

"Sherlock Holmes was in my head. I should be honored, right?"

"No, I am the one honored. I had the pleasure to see what is to be you."

"You git, you did it again."


	12. Chapter 12

"Listen to me carefully, you wanker: I do not want you near me." John shakes his head as he checks traffic. He turns the wipers to clear the windscreen. "I'm dropping you off at your flat and then I am going home. Alone."

"I am sorry." Sherlock closes his eyes.

"I don't care."

But John obviously does care. If he didn't, his knuckles wouldn't be turning white as they gripped the wheel. He wouldn't have blasted through the last red light or jumped the three kerbs.

John drives equally erratically when sexually stimulated. Watching John grind and fondle the gear stick, Sherlock thinks the anger versus arousal hypothesis requires further exploration. 

"You are going home," John says.

John shouldn't be alone, and Sherlock can't allow it. It seems that John needs to learn the lesson that Sherlock Holmes knows better than he—a fact that Sherlock Holmes knows better than anyone. 

"That will not be possible. It's a matter of national security. I can't leave you unguarded."

John laughs at him, which Sherlock finds purely insulting. He's also turning left and continuing on his route to Baker Street. Not acceptable. John has left his mobile inside the cupholder between them. Seizing a moment when John's head is turned, Sherlock snatches it up.

"National security! Aren't we Mr. Self-Important. Oh, there you go, flipping your collar up and pretending to be all mysterious and cool with those cheekbones. You are no one's body guard. In fact, you are the antithesis of a body guard: you put people in danger. Sherlock Holmes is a number one risk factor from what I've read."

"I solve murders, not cause them. And why would you, a fiction writer, believe everything you read? Your mobile is ringing again." Sherlock spins it around in his long fingers, tapping in John's password while keeping it from John's reach.

"You bloody git! How did you get that? Give it back."

"You left it next to me...Hello?" Sherlock says. He winks at John as he puts it on speaker.

As John reaches across, the car swerves into traffic. "Give it here!" He's steers the car back in his proper lane again, but not before narrowly missing hitting a lorry.

"Hello? Is this Captain John Watson?" A woman's voice asks.

"Yes it is," Sherlock lies, then covers the mobile with his hand. "It's no one you know."

"Oi! And how would you know?" John says, fighting to hold the car to his own lane while waving his left hand furiously at the mobile.

"You don't sound like him," The woman says.

Sherlock raises his voice and slows his speech in what he feels is a rather good impersonation of John. "Bloody hell! Of course I do. You just don't know me," he says tersely. "Quit wasting valuable time. Who's calling?"

"You don't know me, but I'm a great admirer of yours. I just love your books, but I've been wanting to ask you, what kind of name is Benedict Cumberbatch for a sidekick?"

"How did she get my number?" John asks.

Sherlock covers the mobile again with his hand. "Shhh! She'll know I'm not you."

"She already does," says John.

"She does not, but I do know who she is." He removes his hand.

"It's just that I fantasize about you, and, well, speaking to you now has gotten me sort of excited and..." she says.

"Get to the point. Speak!" He thinks he sounds rather like John, but her words make Sherlock scrunch his nose and narrow his eyes in disgust.

"Ooh, such authority! My nipples are at attention, Captain Watson, sir."

He can't get rid of the mobile fast enough, and he flings it at John. It ricochets off John's chest to land next to his foot on the accelerator.

"I do love it rough." The woman's laugh echoes, making him cringe. "Meet me at Marcella's tonight. We have so much to discuss," she purrs.

"Miss Riley, we have nothing to discuss." Sherlock leans into John to retrieve the mobile from the floor. John's face flushes as Sherlock's arm dives down between his legs and fishes blindly. John's foot is in the way, and Sherlock tries to push it aside. This also puts Sherlock's face in John's crotch, curls bouncing to and fro. Sherlock turns his head and shoots a quick look up at John, then winks.

"Move your big, bloody body," John orders. "I can't drive with you like that."

"Patience, John, patience." Victorious, Sherlock waves the mobile in John's face.He snatches it out of Sherlock's hand.

Glancing from the road to the mobile, he raises a brow. "She hung up."

"Of course she did after she realized you knew who she was," Sherlock says, taking out his own mobile and texting Mycroft.

" _You_ knew...I didn't. At least, not until you said her name."

"Ah..but she doesn't know that. She also doesn't know we are onto her. If Mycroft didn't already know where she was, we have her now."

" _We_ may have her, but we both know _she_ 's not my real problem. It's you. Is your brother planning to protect me from you? I don't think so."

"I am not your enemy. If you need protecting from anyone, it would be Mycroft." Sherlock sighs. "I am on your side. I will protect you with my life, but there are certain things I can never promise."

"Wait a moment. You're talking about my head. I'm the one who ought to have the most say in this. You can't simply go mucking about inside my mind like you're entering a bloody theatre." John's eyes remain fixed ahead on the road, but he's not noticing what's around him. A woman steps off the kerb, and Sherlock grabs the wheel to try to avoid her. John slams on the brakes, breathing hard. He pulls out of traffic and stops the car for a moment to catch his breath.

"We may not have a choice," Sherlock says. "What if someone invades your mind and is able to remain in there? So far it's only been six hours at a time, but what if that changes? That would raise the possibility that someone might want to remain inside. Permanently."

"You mean like some nutter who wanted to be me?" John asks, pulling back into traffic.

"But it may also be possible that someone who wanted to extend their life could do so indefinitely by going from one person to the next this way. If such a thing were to happen to you, I would have no choice but to go in and attempt to evict them. I have promised you that I will never go inside your head again, but in such a situation, I'd have no other choice." Sherlock taps his knees with his fingers.

"What do you know that you haven't told me? What you said just convinces me all the more that you think this is going to happen. "

Sherlock wishes John would watch the road more carefully. Maybe next time he should drive. "I've come to this conclusion from information I've discovered that raises the possibility."

"Is that the worst of it?"

The strain in his voice makes Sherlock turn to him. "I won't answer that. I don't want to distress you further."

John sighs heavily. "Ta, but it's too late for that. You'd better tell me the rest."

Sherlock realizes they are not far from Baker Street and he must therefore make his case quickly. "Very well. Along with the scraps of information that Mycroft has thrown me and the books I read from those shelves, I've come to a conclusion: I'm certain that you are not the first person to become host to another's consciousness. Think, John. Why is the room preserved as it is—a moment in time, as it were?"

"I don't know—I hadn't thought about that aspect of it until now."

"And the books? Most of them belonged to the man I asked you about, an author named Arthur Conan Doyle. He wrote extensively about spiritualism and described the use of a secret door. Despite the seeming impossibility of the door and portal, they exist. I believe its possible that he was host to someone else's mind as well. The room is a set of instructions placed there by that someone for the express purpose of transferring from one body to another."

"So, not accidental. Not just to go sightseeing in someone else's brain."

"No. To stay. That's what I'm afraid of. It's very possible. Mycroft put me in that room to find 'the secret,' and he was told to do so by someone of great power and importance."

Sherlock notes that although John has resumed driving, it's no longer toward Baker Street. They are now heading to John's flat.

"How long has this been happening to me?" John whispers.

"I believe I was the first."

"How can you be sure?"

"When I found the door, the books and shelves had not been moved in many, many years. Most likely, not within your lifetime."

John chews his lip. He glances around to find a place to park. No small task.

"Go around the block. The man in that blue sedan will be out by then," Sherlock says.

John nods, half listening as he spins the wheel. "The thing is, I think back on my life and now I've got to wonder. There are so many times—in the war, driving down a country road, riding the subway—that I've felt odd, like that's not entirely me. Or when I'm writing and suddenly the story takes an unexpected turn and I have no idea where that came from. Don't you see that all this makes me doubt everything I _ever_ said in the past, everything I have _ever_ done? It makes me question not just my motives—it makes me doubt who I even am."

"You are John Hamish Watson. Do not doubt you are a unique individual. All of those words that you write are from your own mind. You were not channeling some other person or being controlled by an outside force."

"How can you be so sure?"

"You recognized the difference between yourself and when someone else was inside you. You told me this when you acknowledged that that vile reporter had been in your head, too."

John takes his time to think about what Sherlock says. As they round the corner again, the blue sedan pulls out of the parking space.

"That timing was perfect. How do you bloody do that?" John asks, backing into the space.

"Deductions. It's all facts, evidence, circumstances. All one must do is know where to look and what to observe."

"I understand all that. I write detective fiction, after all. But what you deduce is far removed from what most people would ever consider. You're a lot more than facts, evidence, and circumstances, if you ask me."

"On that very subject, I know of someone who may have answers for us. I went to his home earlier, but he wasn't there. I need to speak to him."

"You're thinking we should go together?" John asks as they get out of the car to walk side-by-side across the street to his building.

"Yes." Sherlock thinks he needs to question John again about the proposal, but he needs to time it correctly. He can't chance pushing John into accepting. 

As they go through the front doors into the lobby, John punches in his number on the keypad. "This doesn't mean I've forgotten what you've done. I just need some one to talk to besides my usual mates."

"Simon and who else?"

"Mike. Sort of."

"He can keep it to himself." Sherlock says, holding the door for John.

"Mike told me he's engaged."

Sherlock didn't care for that reminder.

"You've been friends with Simon for a long time. You are close?"

"Hm. Pretty close." They step inside the elevator, and John leans across Sherlock to select the floor, brushing against him.

  
John looks up at the elevator light as it counts up the floors. "He's good to talk to. I don't have many close mates, as your brother pointed out. Mike, Simon. The others? Only acquaintances. That's pretty much it. What about this person we're going to see tomorrow?"

The elevator pings to a stop and doors slide open. Sherlock steps through first. "His name is Finney," Sherlock says, as they walk to John's door. "Older chap, who's worked at the Yard as a detective. He knew about the room—at least, he alluded to it. It seems it was also the scene of some unusual deaths. Carbon monoxide poisoning."

"And you're just telling me this now?" They stop at John's door, where he's perplexed as he watches Sherlock punch in his code.

"You really need to do something about the security in this building," Sherlock says, opening the door.

"Yeah, I guess I do." He takes Sherlock's coat and removes his own. As he hangs them up in his front closet, he clears his throat. "I could still toss you out. Probably should do."

"Yes, but then what would you do for entertainment? I suppose you could watch telly or text a friend, but why would you when you could talk about murder instead?"

"Murder? Yes, let's talk about murder."

"The deaths were made to look accidental, but I suspect differently. The only reason for killing them would be that they found their way into the room and someone else wanted to keep it a secret."

"But there haven't been any attempts on your life, have there?"

"Oh, many. Too numerous to count and in a multitude of creative ways."

"I'm not talking about other cases—I mean an attempt recently. Something out of the blue."

  
"From out of the blue? Why out of the blue? What has color got to do with it?"

"Are you having a laugh? It's an expression."

Sherlock glares at John, clueless. 

"Right. I guess nothing like that has happened since our wrestling with that bloke in the alley or the case that made you pluck your eyebrows. I see they're beginning to grow back," John snickers.

"Yes." Sherlock narrows his eyes at John as he follows him into the livingroom. "Is this what they call small talk? I find people do this when they either want to distract the other person or when they are nervous."

"Or when they simply want to be friendly. Or, you know, just being cheeky."

"No one wants to be friendly with me."

Sherlock sits on the couch and John sits next to him. But he can barely concentrate with John pressed so close, and he is forced to shift away slightly...and reluctantly.

"I'm still angry with you."

Sherlock holds his breath as his skin prickles with excitement at John's words. It's the same explosive chemistry as in that first moment he saw John standing in the doorway at Speedy's, wearing an authentic army jacket and all scruffy from climbing out of bed. 

"We shouldn't be bodily interrupted this time," John says and licks his lips. He shifts back into Sherlock's space, thighs touching again.

It's a bad joke, but Sherlock still snickers nervously as his leg bounces away. John rests his hand on top of his knee to quiet it.

Still, it prompts Sherlock to be certain. He retrieves his mobile from his trousers' pocket and does what hates most in this world: calls Mycroft.

Mycroft responds immediately. "To answer your question, Gregory is perfectly fine after his adventure inside Dr. Watson." Sherlock rolls his eyes at John. "As to your other questions, yes, I have the office under close watch and only moments ago detained your Miss Riley."

Sherlock swallows, his adam's apple bobbing. He should berate Mycroft for blaming Riley's interference on him, but he can't summon the venom with John's body so close. He ends the call and tosses his mobile onto the table before he can further reveal his state to his ever-watchful brother.

He wants this, he does. He wants to be with John Watson. His hands bump and jerk as he reaches for John's arms. He's got to do something before John changes his mind. John grins his amusement as he allows Sherlock to pull him closer.

"Are you going to kiss me or just stare at my mouth?" John asks. 

Sherlock lets go of John's arms and grasps John's head between his hands. 

"Better. Now let's kiss. Like this..."

John demonstrates: He places his hands on top of Sherlock's, lips hovering over his, savoring the moment. A breath away, Sherlock gives a desperate gasp before lips touch, moist and soft as rose petals. But they leave far too quickly. When Sherlock tries to steal them back, John slows them. With hands pressed steady and nestled in Sherlock's curls, he pulls back and gazes into Sherlock's eyes.

John's tongue peeks out, and Sherlock expects him to lick his own lips in anticipation, but instead John's clever flicking tongue changes tactics, and takes a long swipe over Sherlock's plump bottom lip. As John plants his mouth over Sherlock's, he lets the kiss become wet and sloppy. It sends the blood rushing to Sherlock's cock. He doesn't recognize the moans that come from deep within him as John's thick tongue thrusts and probes inside his mouth. He thinks at first it might be John's gasps or that he's possibly back inside John experiencing his out-of-body rush, but no: John is literally inside him—exploring his mouth with that clearly extraordinarily talented tongue.

When he mimics John's flicks and stabs, John leans heavily into him until he's pressing Sherlock down onto the couch. Sherlock's mind sparks and stutters as he attempts to collect what reason he has left. He knows where this is going and he longs to go there with John. No one but John. There's no one else he's ever wanted. No one else he's ever wanted to come inside him.

Every shift of their hips drives Sherlock's vision further out of focus while the hands of a surgeon take him apart: the buttons on his shirt, on his flies, the pull of the zip. Every tug and touch sends a fresh avalanche of sensation wildly through his groin. There’s a very real possibility that Shelock's going to shoot off the second John peels him out of his trousers and shirt.

Sherlock can feel every fiber, every crumb left behind, every piece of John that ever touched the couch. He feels the delicious pulse in his cock as John palms along his length. Each cell in his body sings with the magnitude of John’s motions. He can feel each heartbeat in his chest travel straight back to his erection. John helps him push off his trousers, pull off his shirt. Sherlock numbly helps John free himself of his clothing in turn. All the while, Sherlock's mind whirls with every breath of air and trickle of sweat that they share between them.

“Your mind has already been inside me. Seems right that your cock should be inside me too,” John says.

Sherlock nods, eyes following John as he stands and offers Sherlock his hand. His cock stands large and proud. John wants him and he wants John. It doesn’t matter who’s physically inside of the other, they will be connected, and that is what Sherlock hungers for most—to feel John surround him again, to be with him.

John leads him to his room. It's dark, but a small brass lamp on the bedside table offers a warmth to his bedroom. He remembers this place in great detail, had catalogued it all, but he's overwhelmed to be physically in it. John pulls back the bedspread and sheets with a welcoming gesture. His blue eyes dance as he falls back onto the bed, exposed and needy in front of Sherlock.

“You are positively the most incorrigible, the most aggravating, and the most gorgeous man I’ve ever met," John says. "And I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anyone so much as I want you right now.”

Sherlock kneels on the bed between his legs, unclothed. He's always shied away from doing that just because he feels so exposed. He realizes at once why this is different: his heart willingly stands naked before John.

“I want you. I’ve never wanted anyone,” Sherlock admits.

John lifts his head in surprise. “I don’t believe it. Why me?”

"Why you, indeed? There are so many reasons, but is now really the time to list them?"

Sherlock reaches over for the lube on the table and tries not to think too hard about the last time he saw John use it. He picks up a condom from the box next to it. John groans as he watches Sherlock roll it over his cock, then slather lube over the head and shaft. He grasps the base of his cock tightly; it's all Sherlock can do to try to steady the flutter at the top of his stomach. He would swear that he can feel each molecule of the air against his glans. He’s never felt this sensitive to stimulation as he does under John’s blue-eyed gaze.

Sherlock crawls between John’s thighs. He knows how this works. Both hands lift the backs of John’s knees and push his legs up and apart. John spreads them willingly.

Sherlock rocks back on his heels and lets go the second John’s hands hook around his own shins. Sherlock admires John’s cock. It’s impressively thick and juts out from the thick bush of sandy hair. He’s uncircumcised, but his foreskin’s already pulled tight around the circumference of his glans. He grips himself and pulls back, and his foreskin pops back behind the ridge of his glans. He licks his lips. Sherlock gasps as he watches, bemused into immobility.

“I’m waiting,” John finally says.

Sherlock applies the lube still on his finger and pushes it slowly into John. He sets aside the silky-tight feel and John’s loud groans inside a special room in his mind palace.

Sherlock flexes his toes as John’s hands grab further down his own shins. Sherlock withdraws his finger and rubs his cock up and down, up, down, but not inside. Not yet.

“There,” John directs.

As Sherlock slowly eases himself inside, John’s body yields beautifully to the steady push.

John nostrils flare as he takes a deep breath and releases it. “That’s it,” he says. “Jesus. You look bloody beautiful up there.” 

Sherlock opens his mouth to speak and is surprised to find he has no words. John is so, so tight and he’s so, so hard. He wants to move but is afraid he’ll come immediately. It’s overwhelming. John notes his distress.

“Easy,” he murmurs to Sherlock. “Just take it slow. Move a bit. Rock into me.”

Sherlock does as John instructs. The rolling motion soothes his nerves and cools the fire deep inside his gut. Sherlock is the one groaning now, as John lets go of his shins, letting his legs rock with Sherlock naturally. He lets his body weight take him forward and back.

“That’s it, my genius. Let yourself go. It’s safe here,” John whispers.

Sherlock gives a heavy sigh and clenches both hands into the sheets.

“You feel perfect inside me. Now rock hard. My God, you’ve got it. Right there,” John says, his face flushing. “There, yeah, there,” John says. “Oh. Oh! Sherlock!”

Sherlock snaps his hips and finds John’s sweet spot. It’s critical mass time as he rocks and moans. He feels like laughing he’s so happy. How is this possible? He sees the light and laughter returned in the sparkle of John’s eyes, in his smile. They’re almost tipping over into full-blown bursts of laughter when John narrows his eyes and jerks his hips up.

John is practically growling, a pure animal sound, and he crosses his legs around Sherlock’s back. Sherlock’s weight is all on his arms and John is tugging and moving his hips so that Sherlock’s cock is at an obscene angle.

“Oh!” Sherlock gasps in complete surprise. John tugs them around again. “Oh! Yes, John, yes!”

"Wank my cock with one of those big, beautiful hands," John says roughly, raising his head just enough to watch.

Sherlock grasps John's girth and pumps, which makes John clench and twitch and jerk around his cock. It's all over for him then. He fills the condom as ropes of John's spunk shoot across his belly.

Sherlock tosses his head and swings the sweat-soaked curls of hair out his eyes to gaze down at John. It's the most beautiful sight Sherlock has ever seen. He knows then.

He's in love with John Watson.


	13. Chapter 13

John's warm breath tickles Sherlock's neck, and he opens his eyes to John Watson's head resting next to his on the pillow. Sherlock's arms are tangled in the sheets around him. He hates to disturb the moment, so Sherlock turns his head on the pillow just enough to snatch a look at John's profile. The morning sun illuminates John's hair, and the strands remind Sherlock of gold-spun drizzles of honey and the silver shimmer of bees' wings.

Such romantic notions.

Sherlock sighs. His world has changed forever. Now that he has found John Watson, how can he ever exist without him? Sherlock must devise a way for John Watson to become a permanent fixture in his life. John can't still be considering that proposal now that they've made love, could he?

 _Made Love_. Sherlock once cringed at that term—called it sentimental drivel. Ironic that a gumshoe detective novelist would prove to him that Keats and Shelley were right all along. Now, he's struck with terror that he might lose John.

John's arm hugs him closer, bumping his knee between Sherlock's legs. He's here with Sherlock, close and loving. John's lips turn up and his eyes blink slowly open.

"Mmm...good morning," John says, voice husky. He kisses Sherlock's plump bottom lip and Sherlock's heart flips. "What time is it?"

Sherlock reluctantly raised up on his elbow to be able to see John's clock on the nightstand.

"It's close to one. We've slept the morning away." He's shocked at the time. He never sleeps this late unless he's been on a long case. He was clearly exhausted by the phenomenal sex. He crams memories of last night's sex into a new room in his mind palace, already savouring the prospect of going back through them for more organized filing next time he's alone.

"When are we supposed to go talk to that Finney chap?" John asks. At the same time, he slides his hand down Sherlock's stomach while the other pulls their hips together, which confuses Sherlock. John's actions don't seem to imply that he wants to get out of bed.

"That was our plan—or my plan. We still must." Sherlock is debating just how much urgency there really is in getting that plan under way.

"Alright. But in an hour. He'll still be there then, won't he?" Their cocks bump together at the same time as their heads.

The heat pools between Sherlock's legs as John thrusts against him.

"An hour. Yes, no need to rush. He will still be there."

As John nips his neck, Sherlock's breath hitches, his stomach summersaults, and he suddenly feels dizzy. He chest actually aches as he stops John's tormenting onslaught with a long, passionate kiss.

So this is love.

\----------------------

Two ex-military men meet each other with a determined gait. If they were marching side-by-side, they'd be falling into step. Introducing John to Jack Finney was like introducing two old friends. They were comparing scars within minutes.

"Mine is better, but that's not why yer here," Jack says, pulling down his shirt.

Actually, Sherlock thinks John should have won, but he didn't show Jack his best scar.

"Do ya like my home away from home?" Jack looks pointedly at Sherlock. "You should know."

"I needed to see you, and your door was unlocked," Sherlock says.

"And that's an invitation to come inside?" Jack immediately falls into the crossed-arms military command stance.

"It is for him," John says, crossing his own arms and mirroring Jack. Sherlock's heart skips a few beats.

"Going where he's not invited is Sherlock's M.O."

Jack looks between the two of them and nods in understanding.

"You know," John says.

"About the passageway? Of course I do—I didn't know exactly who it led into until now. Could never tell. You were just a little blond lad...no real point to stay inside that. Who wants to relive childhood? But wait until you're grown and live in a successful author's head? Oh, yeah, what people might do to change places with that."

John stands slack-jawed.

"Don't think I didn't want to go back in there after all those years and try again. I just couldn't. It wasn't right. That and it weren't safe." Jack's voice falls to a whisper. "There's this group of people—some fucking cult—that worships you."

John's expression turns from utter shock to stone, and icy fear shoots up Sherlock's spine.

"You oughta know this, though. Some nosey woman came around asking questions."

"Woman?" John asked.

"Long red hair? Rude?" Sherlock frowns.

"Got that right. Said she was a reporter."

Sherlock wonders just how envolved Kitty Riley is with the Cult. Is she a member? Sherlock thinks that it's possible but unlikely. Riley may have joined the church recently in an attempt to uncover the story. It's far more likely she stumbled upon this information in her investigation and is just exploiting it for all it's worth.

And damn, Mycroft! How could he have not known about the cult? Sherlock almost feels smug knowing that his brother must not have the complete confidence of the "personage of utmost importance"—until he realizes that Mycroft is certain to be privy to this information now that he has Miss Riley in his meaty clutches. But he hasn't relayed it to them, an omission that will require further thought. 

"I thought you might have known since..." Jack hesitates. "Since there might be another doorway."

"What?!" John barks out.

"We could only see through it." Jack takes one step closer to John, who's staring straight ahead, eyes frozen on the cabinets behind Jack.

 _Mirror, mirror on the wall_...Sherlock thinks. Jack was a very good detective—of course he used those skills and investigated this cult. More than likely he infiltrated and became a member to learn more about it. Sherlock is so distracted deducing Jack that he fails to notice John's distress.

"They're looking through my eyes." John turns his gaze to Jack. "They could be doing it right now."

"Not now, but I would say in less than an hour."

"You're sure it's not an actual portal," Sherlock says.

"There's no stepping inside. It's like observing through a fish-eye security lens or like some magic mirror. People can only watch and I'm that sure that no one can enter. At least, not that I witnessed."

"Where is this...viewport?" Sherlock demands. He can't bring himself to name it. "Where are they meeting?"

John jerks his head as if slapped. "Not meeting. Worshipping. Where they worship. _Me._ "

"I'm sorry," Jack says.

"Where," Sherlock demands.

"The Temple of the Living Doorway."

"You've got to be kidding."The groan is from from John, but it's not the kind of groan Sherlock longs to hear from John's lips.

John rubs his hands over his face, but when he removes them, he's pushed all of his distress deep inside and his stony face replaces it. It's the soldier, the captain. He's at attention, straight and stiff—and ready to march into war.

Sherlock doesn't think it will be a battle, but it will be exposive when Doctor John Hamish Watson steps inside that temple. He'd like to ask John what it was like finding out that there is an entire religion based upon him, but he didn't want to light that firefight off prematurely.

\---------------------------

"Oh, Watson! Vessel of the Living Doorway! Hear us!" chant over one hundred voices together. They echo off the dank stone walls and dark vaulted ceiling of the old Celtic church. "We, though many, long to be in the One Body. We appeal to you, oh, Watson, for in One, we are many."

"Over my dead One Body," John whispers to Sherlock as they hide behind an empty rear pew.

"Look, look to the Living Doorway! Reveal to us what you see," they chant.

There are few adornments in the temple, no spiritual leader behind the pulpit, and no large icons or symbols behind the altar. The few marble fixtures are simple except for the massive circular frame on the back apse wall of the sanctuary. The wooden frame is intricately carved, and the surface inside is smooth with an unusual luminosity. Sherlock is certain its composition is neither stone nor glass. He'd like to get a closer look, but can't risk it.

In unison, the congregation stands and faces the front altar, their long red robes billowing. They look towards the large frame as they reach inside their robes, slowly unfolding their hands out in front of them with their offerings.

A wind blows through the temple, building as it whips around and around like a cyclone. With the congregation's back to them, John and Sherlock creep out from behind the pew into the aisle to watch the members throw their tinsel offerIngs into the air.

"Show. Us.The way! Show. Us.The way! Show. Us.The way!"

Dust and tinsel swirl and spiral toward the large round opening in the wall at the front of the temple like a pinwheel, and slowly a vision appears. Within the swirling frame, figures come to a shimmering focus. A gasp from the congregation fills the room.

They see themselves.

"Don't look at me," Sherlock whispers. Of course, John does.

They all turn and see them kneeling in the aisle.

"Watson!" Someone cries out. "It's Watson, Vessel of the Doorway. He has come to us!"

Sherlock steps to the center of the aisle, and as he does he plucks a thread of tinsel from the floor. He's almost certain it's made of silver. _Curious._

"Yes, yes, The Vessel of the Doorway, all good and well," Sherlock says, tugging John backwards, "but this vessel needs to be going back to Mt. Olympus,"

"What? Mt. Olympus? Couldn't you come up with something more fitting like Valhalla or the Spirit in the Sky?" John whispers to him, but his voice is amplified through the entire sanctuary.

"Show us the way!" says one of his followers, who steps forward as the others follow.

"Show. Us.The way!" they chant.

"Not today," Sherlock says. "Come along, John." They turn together and run out the door, leaping clear over the stairs down to the pavement in their haste. A mass of red frocks flutter and flap out the door, racing after The Vessel of the Doorway down into the street.

"Out of the way!" Sherlock commands as they barrel past a young mother holding onto the hand of her three year-old son. She's angry until she sees John's flock of followers fast approaching.

Sherlock keeps looking back. Not that they couldn't out run the mob, but this is drawing unneeded attention. He spies a welcome sight and immediately hails the cab.

John shakes his head as the cab pulls along side them and stops.

"How _do_ you bloody do that?" John asks as Sherlock opens the door. Sherlock ducks inside and John slams the door behind them. "I never catch a cab this quick."

"Trouble, mates?" the driver says lazily.

"Go!" Sherlock barks at the driver, whose blood-shot eyes widen when he sees over a hundred red robes racing toward the cab in his rearview mirror. He swerves out into traffic.

Stoned, Sherlock deduces, which explains how the cabby missed the mob. Plus his erratic driving. Wheels screech as the cab races away, swerving to just miss a lorry. As the driver dodges traffic, John and Sherlock turn in their seats to watch the racing mob grow smaller and smaller in the distance.

"My God," John says. "I don't believe what we've just witnessed."

"Neither do I," says the driver, wiping his brow.

"It was what one might call a 'mind fuck,' but it did indeed happen," Sherlock concurs

John actually begins to laugh, and Sherlock smiles back at him. When Sherlock shifts around in the seat, John does as well, but he stops laughing and stares at the back of cabbie's head.

"That was weirder than the dream I had last night," John says, looking back again. "I'll tell you about it later."

 _Ah,_ Sherlock thinks, _that_ kind of dream.

"221B Baker Street." Sherlock tells the driver. That should afford them some privacy.

"So, your place..." John says rather breathlessly, hand lighting on Sherlock's thigh.

His hushed voice and wide eyes make Sherlock breathless himself. John presses closer and brushes his thumb over Sherlock's lower lip before he leans in and kisses him.

\------------------------------

He leads John up his steps. His hands tremble slightly as he unlocks his door. His mind is filled with possible outcomes as they step inside.

He holds his breath as John looks around 221B, from the left-over take out on the coffee table to cold half-full teacups on the kitchen table, to his friend on the mantel.

"I like it," John says. "It's you. Eclectic controlled chaos."

Sherlock takes John's coat to hang it along with his, but not before he pulls the piece of silver tinsel from his coat pocket.

"I need to test this," Sherlock says, going into his kitchen to dig through cabinets. He finds the small brown bottle, sets out an old plate, and places the tinsel on it. He opens the bottle.

"That's nitric acid," John says, as Sherlock carefully pours one drop on the tinsel. "You keep nitric acid in your kitchen cupboard."

"Doesn't everyone?" The liquid turns a cloudy grey when it comes in contact with the tinsel. "Silver," Sherlock says. "Which is an excellent conductor of energy and hence of potential use in connecting through that temple 'window.' I need to get a better look at that window."

"Let's wait until there's no service going on, next time," John suggests. "And you should alert your brother about this."

"I have no doubt he already knows, what with that mob chasing us. He most probably already knew about it before we even got there."

"Then why in hell hadn't he shut it down?"

"Observation. What was that dream?" Sherlock asks.

John takes a shaky breath. "I went inside the doorway, and when I came out, everyone was me, including you. My face, my voice. Me."

He's been inside John's head, but for John to be inside him? It gives Sherlock a thrill, his heart thrumming thinking of the ways in which he wants John inside him. He's standing so close, his shoulder brushing against Sherlock's chest. His heart is hammering so hard that he thinks John must feel it pounding. He certainly does.

"Sherlock?" John blinks and licks his lips. It's a most enticing vision.

John's fingers trace up the front of Sherlock's white shirt and he plucks open the top two buttons. He kisses him on the lips. It's just a brush of a kiss but it's enough to make Sherlock's stomach tumble. John's next kiss is more demanding. Sherlock's arms reach around him and grab tight in desperation as John's tongue slides and slips inside Sherlock's mouth.

Sherlock shifts John against the kitchen counter. He can feel John's hip bone and the hard ridge of John's erection against his. John pulls the rest of Sherlock's shirt out of his trousers and finishes unbuttoning it. He splays it open to slip his hands inside, flicking his nipples.Sparks fire behind Sherlock's eyes.

“John, John,” Sherlock hears himself plead against John’s parted lips. He's bereft when John pulls back enough to look down at his fingers toying with Sherlocks erect nipples. 

"When you're flushed and randy, you are one of the most seductive sights I've ever seen," John whispers. Sherlock's chest freezes when John bends in to plant butterfly kisses along his neck. John takes hold of Sherlock's hips and ruts against him. When John's mouth returns to Sherlock's, his grateful cry is swallowed up. And when John rubs their cocks together causing delightful jolts of what must surely be neurological combustion, all Sherlock can think of is that John is incredible, John is magic. No wonder people worship him.

Sherlock discovers that he desperately needs to kiss and taste every inch of John Watson, from the freckles on his jaw to the scar on his shoulder, from the fuzz on his belly to the tip his large, proud cock. He begins.

Sherlock pulls John's jumper off with surprising speed. John moans in approval as Sherlock runs his tongue in circles around John's jaw. His assertive hands hold John's hips as his tongue trails down John's neck and across to his shoulder. At first John flinches as he traces the star-like scar with his lips and tongue, but he relaxes against Sherlock with every brush of his lips.

"Amazing. Just astounding," John says, and Sherlock hums against him in approval. John buries his head in Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock stills, savoring the moment. One hand moves from John's hip to his flies while the other measures out the length and girth of John's erection.

As they step into Sherlock’s room, John turns to Sherlock. “What shall we do now, love? What do you want?”

Sherlock’s not reticent about asking for sex, but he wants to be clear. He steps up to John next to his bed and rubs the palm of his hand against the length of bulge of John’s erection, trapped within his trousers. He wants to feel John inside him. Suddenly he realizes that the most important thing in the world is to say the right thing, to be honest about this.

“I want you,” he says, voice deep and rich. He deliberately writhes against John.

“How do you want me?” John asks. "We can move to this somewhere more comfortable—unless of course you _want_ to fuck standing up. But I do want to get the rest of those clothes off your lovely body, and soon." He cups Sherlock's cock and massages its length.

Sherlock gasps. The possibilities! "Standing or bending over or I don't care, just so long as you fuck me." Sherlock practically vibrates from the excitement.

John smile lights up. “Perfect. Get undressed.”

Sherlock tugs off his own trousers, his cock jutting proudly. He almost topples over in excitement when he sees John pull out a packet of lube and condom from his trouser pocket. The man is prepared, and he’s completely undressed. Sherlock admires his magnificent round arse, freckles and tan lines and fine sandy body hair.  

“Against the wall, then.”

Sherlock shivers at the order. “Against the wall it is.” Hands against the wall, he spreads his legs apart, but they’re not far enough. John pushes his thigh between Sherlock's legs to spread them further.

“Perfect,” John says as his hands smooth down Sherlock’s sides to his arse. “I love you open and needy.”

A wet tongue glides down Sherlock’s spine, down, down to his tailbone. Doctor-clever hands spread his arse cheeks and the wet tongue laps against his pucker. Sherlock chokes out a sob of delighted surprise.

He pushes his hips forward. He wants John’s tongue inside him, but instead a finger slowly opens him. He can feel cooling spit running down the crease of his arse. There, he feels another of John's blunt fingers, all the while his tongue flicks and laps around his fingers. Sherlock has just decided he is likely to expire in anticipation, but then, finally, the bliss-filled moment his tongue pushes inside. It's all so splendidly nasty. Sherlock gasps and bucks, but John supports his hips in place.

While he'd love to observe John, he's done so before from inside his mind. Being the recipient and on the outside of his head offers Sherlock a whole new myriad ofstimuli and response outcomes for him to categorize. As Sherlock squirms, he’s so dizzy he’s thankful he’s pressed to the wall. It's becoming more and more problematic to sort out his reactions to John's ministrations. He bites back a groan and a most inappropriate laugh. He toes flex then scrunch in time with John's tongue as it darts in and out of his arse. Across every inch of his body, his nerves spark and tingle. He feels a heretofore unexperienced sensation as though he's being branded from inside his chest.

John’s tongue and fingers leave him. He shivers again as the cool lube replaces the warm, wet tongue. Sherlock hears the snap of the condom rolling down John’s length and he fruitlessly tries to steal a peek over his shoulder. Instead his chin jerks up as the head of John’s cock nudges against his hole. Sherlock's hands fumble at the wall.

“Fuck me,” he whispers.“Fuck me deep and hard. I never want to stop feeling you inside me.”

John groans and teases his hole with the tip of his cock as he reaches around and wraps his hand around Sherlock’s length, squeezing slowly up and down until a drop of precum oozes out of the head.

“John, please,” he begs. Sherlock arches his back, one foot remaining braced but the other sliding along the floor. John plants his foot on his other side.

“I’m not letting you get away from me,” he growls and pushes deeper inside. Sherlock’s nails claw against the wall as John buries himself deeper, slowly stretching him painfully open. 

“Almost inside,” John pants.

John’s continued pumping helps distract Sherlock from feeling like he’s being completely split in two. He’s also thankful that John’s braced his leg against his since he’d be a puddle on the floor had he not.

“I’m inside you. God, you’re a sight.”

He’s been holding his breath and now lets the wind whoosh out from his lungs. His whole body shudders as John slowly starts to rock, his cock moving forwards and back inside rather than in and out. It becomes a fluid motion and John’s body presses to his.

John pants in Sherlock’s ear and nips at Sherlock’s neck. His movements become less fluid as he drives inside Sherlock. It’s a shock to Sherlock when he realizes he’s about to come. He feels the pulse of John’s cock inside his arse and his brain shuts off completely to reboot to this pinprick of light that’s John Watson inside him. Coming, calling Sherlock’s name. He’s John for a moment, then he’s both, then he’s himself. He's gulping air and shaking like he’s coming down from a really good high. He realizes he is.

John Watson. He almost says it. I love you almost slips out. He’s relieved he’s facing the wall because one look at Sherlock’s face and John would have known the truth.

He'd like for John to melt into him, but instead he pries Sherlock off the wall. His come slowly drools down his abdomen where it isn't still splattered on the wall.

"Let's get cleaned up," John says, holding out his hand.

The shower is nice. He's never shared one before. At least, not like this. He's reminded of how he was inside John when John took himself in hand. Recalled how he hoped that he would witness John touch himself again. Now Sherlock lathers him with care, soaping up his chest, back, thighs, and between his legs as John had done when he was inside him. This is so much more intense, somehow more intimate. John returns the caresses with the soapy flannel, scrubbing that hard to reach spot in the middle of his back that feels so good with John's attentions. Afterward, Sherlock and John share take out and watch some bad telly. Sherlock stores it all in what is fast becoming a vast new wing inside his mind palace.

Between adverts, Sherlock texts Mycroft, who assures him that the office on the seventh-and-a-half floor is secured. The next morning, as soon as John goes home to work on his novel, Sherlock returns to the office to make certain.

 


	14. Chapter 14

Although he sleeps more these days, it doesn't take much to wake Sherlock. John's tossing and turning rarely disturbs him, but tonight John is particularly restless. Sherlock observes him without moving. John's profile is softened by filtered moonlight from the hazy glass of the bedroom window. His up-turned nose twitches up a bit; his lush lashes flutter; his lips are drawn thin.

After months together, Sherlock knows the signs of John's distress. It's as if he's drowning. Sherlock thinks, in a way, that John is. His hands begin to twitch slowly. He hiccups and gasps. It builds until his chest spasms and his arms jerk. Yet even distressed, he's the most perfect specimen of a human being Sherlock has ever known. He's become more than a friend to Sherlock. So much more. More than even The Game. As John's brows pinch and shoulders tighten, Sherlock carefully reaches out, lightly brushing John's back. He traces his fingers in circles, caressing and smoothing his tensions. Sherlock widens his pattern, tracing an infinite figure eight. John's breathing slows. Another nightmare avoided.

Over the past five months of their relationship, it's been his habit to quiet John this way, and through this, he's given John a small token in return for all John's given him.

But it's his change of perspective that has been John's greatest gift to him. Of all the wonders John has brought to his life, seeing the world through John's eyes has changed him most. To see that there can be good in other people. It's something he rarely ever looked for in others. John has taught him to be kind. Thoughtful. To care.

He gives thanks with each breath to whatever powers it may have been that brought them together.

Thanks to John, he was learning to sleep better. In fact, neither of them had slept so soundly as they had come to do together. Meals were more pleasurable in John's company. Showers and sex became Olympic events. He's never been so...clean or toned.

And yet, while they had grown closer and learned so much about each other, a part of John remained distant. They still lived apart. Technically.

"It seems a mere formality to move in together," Sherlock had said. "We're together every night and for most of each day."

John had not relented.

Sherlock misses his silk sheets and soft mattress, but he sleeps surprisingly well in John's bed. Although the mattress is too firm, the sheets flannel, and the quilt cotton, somehow that's as wholesome and comforting as John Watson himself.

It's seems all aspects of his life have come to involve John. Lestrade has come to expect John at crime scenes. If John weren't there, he'd ask, "Where's your doctor?" This admittedly made Sherlock's face heat up, but he didn't actually mind. He too wanted John there beside him.

Sherlock has even dedicated a new wing to his mind palace just to contain everything about John Watson. Inside it, next to the room that held memories of what it was like to be in John's mind, he put what it was like to wake up next to John, how John snored, how he licked his lips. He filled an entire room with John's brilliance: the special way he buttered his toast and rattled his spoon in the teacup. Then he realized that even that wasn't enough. John Watson now walks the mind palace beside him. It's not nearly as good as sharing John's brain, but it will do as a close second.

If he could only get John to take that final step to move in to 221B. Sherlock continues to rub John's back. He never thought he would want to do this: share a bed or share his life with someone. He desperately wants it now. He hopes that John wants the same, but if so why does he hesitate? What still holds John back?

John's breathing becomes rhythmic and calm. His jaw relaxes. Sherlock kisses the back of John's neck and John's nose twitches. The ghost of a smile plays on his lips. He's not average; he's breathtaking! There is nothing average about John. Sherlock wants to be able to watch John sleeping for the rest of his life.

As Sherlock worries about his future, he studies John's shoulder. It's smooth and freckled with fine sandy hairs. John had returned the ring and broken off talk of any engagement with that couple. That meant something, didn't it? He'd asked John to clarify what it meant, but Sherlock is still uncertain.

"It means that I choose you," John had told him. He seemed to think that that was a good enough answer, but it really wasn't.

So, he'd asked again.

"Because I chose you."

Sherlock should be happy, but he wants John with him in 221B. There's more than enough room. It's not like John really has all that much in this big fancy flat of his. Just furniture and books. Still, if John truly couldn't leave it, Sherlock would live here. In the end, he'd live anywhere. So long as he's with John.

John's arm jerks and his legs kick. It's no longer the war that's haunting him. It always comes back to the portal, now.

There must be a way to quiet John's fears. He wishes he'd never suggested that someone might be able to get inside his head to stay. The two of them had returned together to the office. Sherlock had hoped that it would reassure John that no one would be able to get back inside and take up residence. If no one can get in, he will be safe, secure. But John's doubts resurface daily. "Was that really me saying that?" he asks. Then after being reassured that he was indeed himself, he only stops asking the question aloud. Instead, doubt and wondering cloud his expression in the fear that someone else might be looking out from behind his eyes.

After Mycroft shut down The Temple of the Living Doorway, Sherlock had questioned a number of The Temple's members they'd identified from the CCTV on the street. Most were closed-mouth about the Church, but a bit of deductive reasoning gave Sherlock enough blackmail material to wheedle information from a few of them. They'd determined that The Temple had followed John, the Vessel, since birth. And before John, there had been other Vessels The Temple had followed. Sherlock had substantiated from enough of the congregation members interviewed that what they looked through was merely a window. They had never entered and to their knowledge, could not. But even this couldn't calm John's anxiety entirely.

The door behind the bookcase still seemed to be the only known portal.

Sherlock had gone back to the office yesterday, again with John.

"And you're absolutely sure no one can enter?" John had asked. Again.

"As certain as possible, John. If anyone does enter this office, Mycroft _will_ know. There are cameras," Sherlock had pointed out, reviewing this with John. Sherlock usually had little patience for repeating himself, but somehow he didn't mind as much with John. Especially not this. "Hidden CCTV cameras. Mycroft will be directly notified. He is texting me even now, since we showed up on camera when we walked in.

"And I have put in place other precautions myself. Observe the door to the office. See the thin piece of thread at the bottom? I have also done the same to the portal door. If anyone enters, we will know."

John had nodded. What went unsaid is that despite John's doubts, he knows exactly what it feels like when someone tries to push him aside to look out. It's when he's asleep that concerns them both. How would either of them know then if someone were there who doesn't belong?

Sherlock finally falls back to sleep. The next morning, John is the one to wake before he does. When Sherlock wakes a few minutes later, relief washes over him as John smiles down at him. It's his John and only his John. One kiss on the forehead reassures him of that.

He decides to lazily doze away another few hours in bed while John gets up to write. He drift off to the tap, tap of John pecking the keys of his laptop. He dreams that he hears the door open and voices in the other room, then awakens enough to realize it's no dream. They have an unannounced visitor. The voice is familiar, and from the tone and pitch of the discussion, it's a friend of John's. Sherlock quietly gets up, puts on his gown, and pads to the door. Silently, he cracks the door open a bit to see them. He's not sure whether he should come out of the room or stay. Does John want this friend to know Sherlock is in the bedroom?

"Oi, you've been keeping to yourself a lot lately," the man says. Ahhh, it's Simon Pegg. As he gives John a hug, Pegg bends down so that the four inch difference equalizes them. They embrace longer than Sherlock deems necessary. Sherlock hasn't hugged much of anyone beyond than Lestrade's brief attempts to socialize him. This hug appears different.

"I haven't heard a word from you other than a word or two of text messages," Simon says, and gives John one last sqeeze before stepping back.

When inside John, Sherlock was certain that they were just friends, but by the way they're continuing to brush arms and hands as they walk to the couch, this doesn't appear just platonic.

Sherlock eases the door open just enough get a view of the couch as they sit down. He holds his breath, and lets it out as they sit about a foot and a half apart. His heart slows.

Friends. Yes. His first observations were correct. That's all they are: friends.

"I hear you broke it off with Evie and Kevin. Completely," Simon says and scoots closer.

John rubs his face with his palms. That's not a good sign. Why is Simon bringing up other relationships? Sherlock succumbs to doubts that he may have been too quick to assume there's nothing going on between them.

"Yeah, and how did you come by that information?" John asks with irritation in his voice.

"Kevin came to cry on my shoulder, all busted up. He left Evie and filed for divorce. He said it wasn't the same between them after you left. He told me she accused him of loving you more and that deep inside he blamed her for you leaving the relationship. He said it wasn't true, but I'm not so sure."

"Why are you telling me this, Simon?"

Sherlock wonders the same. He finds he's holding his breath again.

"Because I know you, mate. I'd rather you'd heard it from me. I know how you love to blame yourself. If someone had a vat full of blame, you'd be the first to volunteer to dive in and wallow in it. This one isn't your fault. They couldn't keep it together. Maybe he did love you more. But he committed to Evie long before you came into the picture, and they shouldn't have been trying to use you to patch up _their_ relationship."

"I don't believe it. A divorce."

"There you go! I knew it. You're doing it. John, it's not about what you did or didn't do."

"Easy for you to say."

"No! You have to ask—if their marriage couldn't handle you saying no, there had to be something else going on there."

"Yeah. It got so that Evie was more the odd one out at times—at least with Kevin. She did her best not to resent it, but, yeah, how could she not? You're right. I suppose it just wasn't going to work."

"You had me fooled at the time, though. I thought it was what you wanted, not long ago. I mean, it certainly was an untraditional arrangement, but you seemed to be happy with it. I'm not one to judge, either."

"I admit, it was what I wanted for a time," John says. "But I still dated other people. Then Mary. Then..."

This is moving on to being about them, Sherlock thinks. He expects John to tell Simon. That he's with Sherlock now. But he doesn't. He sits there silent. The moments drag on.

John finally says, "But that was before..."

"So I _am_ right!" Sherlock hears a loud smack as Simon slaps John on the back. "I thought so. It's about that Sherlock Holmes bloke. The tabloids are filled with speculation about you and him being together. You hadn't said anything, so I thought maybe it was all hype.

"So, is it true? Are you solving crimes together and shacking up?"

John looks over his shoulder towards the bedroom door and Sherlock jumps back. Sherlock's heart is in his mouth.

"Come on out, Sherlock," John says.

With a push, the door creaks the rest of the way open. Sherlock tightens the sash on his gown and steps out. Thrusting his hands deep in his pockets, he strides to the couch, head up.

"Sherlock Holmes meet Simon Pegg. Simon, Sherlock." Simon starts to stand, but Sherlock shakes his head.

"No need to rise on my account. I'm Mr. Unimportant. Just go on," Sherlock says, voice dripping with venom. He's angry at himself for reacting like this, but he's hurt. "Never mind me. I'll be in the kitchen making coffee."

"You don't make the coffee," John says, eyes narrowing.

"I will today." Sherlock spins around and begins a swift retreat to the kitchen.

"Sherlock, get back here!"

Sherlock hesitates mid-step, then sighs and stares at the ceiling. "Very well, but it's all so tedious."

"Oh, so meeting my friends is tedious now?"

He's gone too far. He always does this. Pushes people away. He doesn't want this to happen with John. Never with John. Sherlock races to the couch and around, eyes wide. "No, your friend isn't tedious. It's...just that..."

"What?" John asks, shaking his head. "I'm sorry, Simon. Sherlock doesn't always speak the same language."

"Whatever does that mean?" Sherlock asks. "I speak entirely correct English."

"See," John says to Simon who's laughing. Sherlock grits his teeth.

"Yeah, I do," Simon says with a smirk. "Have you ever done stand-up comedy?"

"Stand-up comedy?" Sherlock crosses his arms. "I am obviously standing right now, but people tell me I have no sense of humor."

"Sit down, Sherlock."

Sherlock plops down in such exasperation next to John that they all bounce on the cushions.

"I need to apologise to both of you," Johns says. "I've been avoiding this meeting. I knew what would come up. Sherlock, Simon's my best friend. We've been best friends since uni."

Sherlock is confused. It's better than being his lover, but it still pains him to hear it. He's not going to say anything. Yet.

"Sherlock, I know you're not into friends, but I'd really like it if you and Simon could like each other and become friends. I'm sure you will."

"I'm sure we will too," Simon says.

"I'm sure I'm not sure what you're getting at here." Sherlock's eyes narrow. "I thought I was your best friend."

"You are." John clears his throat, and says, "You're my special best friend."

"Special?" Sherlock and Simon voices clash together.

"What are you?" Sherlock asks John, "Ten years old?"

At Sherlock's comment, Simon throws his head back in laughter. "Sherlock, you do have a sense of humor—that was funny. And you are living with John."

"But I'm _not_ living with John. I'm nothing but a house guest. I temporarily warm a spot in his bed."

"I can see that you're a drama queen, just like the tabloids said. I don't usually believe what they say, but...hey look, don't worry... you _are_ living with him. No one's ever been his 'house guest' before."

This is interesting. Instead of a competitor, Sherlock immediately senses he may have an ally in Simon Pegg.

"John can be choosy. He doesn't have very many people really close to him. That you're with him right now, it sure enough says something about how he feels." Simon jabs John in the side with his elbow. "Even if the ham-head won't tell you that himself."

"Hey! That's enough," John says, jabbing him back.

"Speaking of things ya don't want to talk about, I was wondering how you were doing with that feeling like there were two people inside you. I imagine it's all kinda real now," he says, winking boldly at Sherlock.

John rolls his eyes, and moves to the edge of the couch, half-turning to Simon. "Our sex life is not up for discussion."

"Since when?"

"Since Sherlock is sitting right here," John says. 

"As for the other, it hasn't happened lately. But recently I think I've fallen into the habit of talking to myself."

"No wonder you always look so bored," Sherlock says, and Simon laughs again.

"You are funny! You know, he does get that look on his face at times, like he's forever constipated. I'm glad you're around to give him an enema."

"That really is not funny." John sits back on the couch, looking between them. "I'm reconsidering. Maybe I don't want you two becoming friends."

"Seriously though, John," Simon begins, "you do tend to blame yourself as though it's some sort of Karma. You can't blame yourself for everything bad that happens in the world. You're not the cause."

"A man is happiest when he forgets all the mean things about himself," Sherlock says, and places his hand on John's knee to give it a gentle squeeze.

"Alright, Mr. Sherlock Aphorism Holmes," John blurts out, "that's enough." Sherlock starts to remove his hand, but John slaps his on top, stopping him. Simon stares down at the hands together and grins.

"On that note, I can clearly feel the sexual tension rising in the room. This is me thinking it's time for me to go."

"You don't need to," John says.

"Yes he does," Sherlock says.

"Yeah, I do." Simon stands up and stretches. He reaches out and shakes Sherlock's hand. "It was nice to meet you. Looks like we'll be seeing a lot of each other in the future."

"That's enough Simon," John says as he walks him to the door. Sherlock hears some hushed words between them and can't make out exactly what's being said, but it's enough to make him blanch.

John shuts the door. "What was that?" but when John whirls around and gasps as his eyes meet Sherlock's. "I am so sorry," John says. "I didn't mean that the way it sounded. I do care for you. A lot. It's just that Simon tends to enjoy over-romanticising my love life, and I didn't want him to get the wrong idea."

"And what idea is that?" Sherlock tries but can't entirely hide the anguish in his voice. "No. Don't say anything. I'm the one who's sorry. I of all people shouldn't be pushing you into anything you're not ready for. But you do need to know. You are special to me too."

"You're right. We should move in together."

His heart beats to hear John's words. Sherlock suddenly understands why poets obsessively write about love. His joy and laughter fill the room, and he flings himself into John's arms.

They make love that night as they never have before. Slow and sweet. Before it begins, Sherlock tries his best to say the words, but each time he finds them cut off by the insistent pressure of John's mouth crushing Sherlock’s lips.

As John gently rolls Sherlock over, his face deep in John’s downy pillow, Sherlock decides that it can wait. He relaxes, allowing his body to react as it wishes. His pants are still on, but his dressing gown is gone, thrown aside on the floor next to John's bed. His hard chest brushes against Sherlock's back, and John's muscled forearms are wedged on each side of him, holding him tightly in place. He gasps as John slowly thrusts his hips, his cock desperately rubbing between his cheeks. He wants his pants gone, to feel John's bare cock, to feel it inside him.

John groans as the friction builds. Hot breath dampens his neck as that perfect rock hard cock tries to find its way. A liquid heat of anticipation fills Sherlock's body as John sits up and pushes Sherlock on his side.

John stops. Sherlock has never given much thought to the scars on his back, but John apparently does.

"Sherlock," His fingers trace these. "I've meant to ask you about them. A case gone bad, I assume."

"Yes. I don't like to talk about it. But I will with you, another time."

Sherlock pushes those thoughts away. He was alone. He had no one to lean on, no one to watch his back. But now? It's all different. It will never happen again now that he has his Boswell to inspire.

"Another time then," John says, and kisses his back.

A liquid rush of heat fills him as John's hands tug Sherlock’s silk pants down over the points of his hips, slapping his deliciously hard cock into his tummy after catching on his pants. John slides back on the bed into the space behind Sherlock and softly kisses his neck. No hint of hesitation comes from John’s hands or lips. His familiar fingers find their way into Sherlock's curls. Afterward, John wraps Sherlock up firm against thosebiceps Sherlock loves better than breathing.

John shifts them from their sides. With John straddling him, Sherlock’s back is flat to the bed. John lowers himself down and all of Sherlock's sharp, pointed edges fit into John’s smooth contours.

John finds his mouth again, exploring. He grips both of Sherlock’s shoulders and lifts himself up, gazing down into Sherlock’s face. John’s fingers trace outline of his lips and his jawline. Gently, they move across his brow. Sherlock has never wanted this kind of touch before, not until he experienced John’s soft, worshipping hands.

John’s cock is hard and ready. He rolls on the condom before slicking himself up. His fingers ease inside, first one, then two. He presses them in and out, so slow and sure. Sherlock moans as a finger brushes over his prostate and teases it.

“John, yes. Now.”

John replaces his fingers with his cock. As he pushes slowly inside, Sherlock welcomes the sting. When he's seated deep inside, Sherlock's chest tightens.

"Move," he pleads.

John’s mouth clamps shut on Sherlock’s shoulder to keep from crying out as his hips gently rock into Sherlock. Sherlock’s heart races at the knowledge that he’s the cause of this much pleasure in John Watson.

There's so much here to feel, Sherlock thinks. John the doctor, John the writer, John the man who changed Sherlock's world forever. Sherlock is about to cry, but John distracts him. He grasps Sherlock's cock and strokes him in time with his slow, steady thrusts. He’s making it last so, so long. Sherlock wonders why he had to wait so many years to find him? Maybe—before—this wouldn’t have worked, or they were each in a place they longed for but couldn’t find. It makes Sherlock terrified that he might lose this, lose John. He’s not sure what he’d do if he did. Sherlock hiccups back a cry as he comes. John doesn’t hold back his own sobs.

Although neither says the words, Sherlock thinks them.John isn't ready to hear them yet, but he's certain that John will.

He will.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to lijahlover for wanting Tom Hiddleston in the story and Chriscalledmesweetie for James Finnemore. You got them both...AND they are playing strip poker with John!

"Good morning, John." He kisses the fine hairs as the back of his neck, and John rolls over on the blue cotton sheets. His breath catches as he waits. As John's matching blue eyes flutter open, he knows. It's _his_ John looking back out at him.

He kisses him again, wet and hard on the lips, and John hums his approval. He hates it when John breaks the kiss.

"Tonight is Mike's bachelor party."

Sherlock groans. He was hoping John would drop it. "That's hardly the way to greet your lover when you wake." He flops over on his back. Sherlock abhors ritual celebrations such as this. He's told John as much, yet John keeps insisting.

A few of Mike's and John's other friends and acquaintances will be there, including some of the actor crowd Sherlock is none too keen on.John said he used to party with the two who are slated to play his two detectives in John's new BBC One show. Sherlock has no idea who Tom Hiddleston or John Finnemore even are. Lestrade had told Sherlock they were excellent actors and would "do justice" to the characters John had lovingly created. Sherlock googled them afterward. True, they were well-recognized and acknowledged to be more than competent.

But also very, very handsome.

"Mike is your friend too," John reminds him.

Pulled back from his thoughts, Sherlock frowns. "It would be different if it were just you and me and Mike. But this will most likely be a testosterone-intoxicated night of debauchery."

"All the more reason attend," John laughs and flicks his tongue in Sherlock's ear as he cozies closer to Sherlock. " _Mmm. Debauchery_." 

Sherlock's cock salutes the skill of John's cunning tongue. In light of the current debate, Sherlock mentally works to stifle the stiff enthusiasm, but John's talent far exceeds Sherlock's will when setting intellect against eroticism. _No fair_ , Sherlock thinks as John blows cool puffs of breath into his ear. Heat and blood race to his cock. It tickles and tantalizes. His hands jerk away, leaving the sheet tented with his cock at full mast.

John grins and licks his lips at the sight. "More than a few friends," he whispers, forcing another cool puff of air into his ear. "If I'd known your ears were this sensitive, I'd have done this sooner." Sherlock catches the gleam in John's eyes as he admires the big, wet spot on the crisp, cotton sheet where Sherlock's traitorous precum leaked.

It's a clear invitation for John to grope beneath the sheets and wrap his hand around Sherlock's enthusiastic erection. Goosebumps and gasps betray Sherlock as John leisurely strokes him.

"Do you really want me to go without you?" John's honey-toned question lingers as throws the sheets off them and kisses a trail down Sherlock's chest. He follows Sherlock's freckles one-by-one as if he were connecting the dots down his tummy. He stops right next to his cock as if there were an "X marks the spot" waiting there.

This is infuriating. Sherlock is torn. On one side, drunken, horny, slobbering men; on the other, what? Sherlock stares down as John mouth hovers there, waiting to lick the spot. After all, Sherlock doesn't _want_ him to go alone with those good-looking actors about. And John knows it. Sherlock also desires John's cunning lips. Now.

Sherlock could always rely on his usual ploy to get John's attention when things get too tedious: distracting John with a case.

John looks up at him as if he's already won the prize as his lips wrap around Sherlock's cock. All other thoughts race from Sherlock's mind except for each superb gulp as John takes him down his throat. Who knew it would take this to erase those ceaseless computations in his mind? Sherlock wills himself not to thrust his hips up into John's mouth. After hours watching Pornhub, Sherlock realizes there is no way to master such perfection as John's method without a physical demonstrate such as this. Video simply doesn't allow for the sophistication to match the maneuvers in the back of John's throat. Sherlock visualises this as a master lesson:

> Slide cock inside mouth. Suck cock and swirl tongue as it progresses inside. When cock head passes uvula, clamp back of throat tight around head of dick. Release. Withdraw mouth from cock. Roll tongue around cock as it slides out. Continue easing off until head just lightly scrapes teeth. Repeat.

"Yes," Sherlock chokes out. Once he solved cases with his mind. Now he constructs step-by-step instructions on cock sucking. "Yes. I'll go. With you." He'll agree to anything if only John will please, please continue. He can always lure him away with a case. Until then...

"Please. Don't stop. Never stop."

\------------------------- 

Later, after dining on one of John's adequate quick fry-ups, Sherlock provides John the time he needs alone with his novel.

Sherlock knows he's been taking up a lot of John's creative time. In the last few weeks, Sherlock has made sure to let John have his mornings and early afternoons free for his writing. But Sherlock continues to pull John into the streets of London to help solve whatever cases Lestrade tosses their way.

Although none of the cases had been higher than a six, John's mere presence lent importance to each. Still, Sherlock longed for a locked-door murder or serial killer to truly parade his skills. Until then, with every case Sherlock grumbled to Lestrade and listened to John throw back insults at Anderson—all of which proved entertaining in itself.

As Sherlock kisses him goodbye, he can't help recalling how those lips felt during that cataclysmic blow job earlier. He regrets having to leave.

"I'm warning you," John says after kissing him back. "I won't be forgiving if you accidentally lose track of the time and forget about tonight." And he licks his lips in a subtle reminder of what awaits him if he's cooperative.

And...this seems to hold some importance to John; therefore, Sherlock decides, he will not forget. While he wants another delectable repeat of this morning's fellatio, he also very much wants to return the favor. Sherlock believes that after ample demonstration and practice on his own part, he may become as good as John. He'll do his best to recreate John's method and even add a bit of improvisation on his part. After the bachelor party perhaps.

"I will be there."

"You'd better be." It's a Captain John Watson order that Sherlock fully intends to follow.

When Sherlock exits the building, the wind bites wickedly at his neck. A fine mist fills the air that chills to the bone. He pops up his collar and brushes back damp curls that lick at his forehead. _Better._ He waves to hail a cab. He taps his foot and waits. As he does he soaks in the sights, scents, and sounds of London. He hums contentedly while they filter through him. From where he stands, he believes he can smell the very brine of the ocean. As the cab rolls up next to him, he distinctly detects the late morning car fumes mingled with the Thames. He catches one last whiff of its mucky banks as he closes the door to the cab.

He settles back into the seat. This time for John's writing also allows time for Sherlock. While this might seem selfish on his part, it is anything but. He needs this time, a chance to talk to a few people about "John's case" without John to listen in. Up until the last few days, Sherlock has brought John along with him on all investigations surrounding the portal. From the beginning, Sherlock had noted a direct correlation between John's troubled sleep and these excursions, but three days ago, it had gone beyond what Sherlock felt to be acceptable.

He steeples his hands beneath his chin and his eyes fix on a raindrop on the window next to him. His mind palace beckons. John. The portal. Both enigmas and puzzles before him. 

Sherlock walks a fine line: John wants to know the truth yet does not. One could easily lose one's balance and fall. He could disclose all he's reasoned, all he's deduced. But why trouble John with the myriad of possible outcomes when in the end, there will only be one?

Of course, he'll disclose to John where he went today and why. But to bring John along? No need to agitate him further.

In Sherlock's mind, paramount to all is John's sanity and well-being. They must seal off the portal. Their inability to do this has caused much of John's distress. Nailing it shut didn't work. Mycroft's men had tried that weeks ago. The next day they had discovered the nails wedged between the books. The nails had worked themselves out of the boards as easily as worms push themselves through earth.

Resting his head on the backseat of the cab, Sherlock recalls how as they had watched the CCTV video, John had masked his fears such that only the grim line of his mouth and clenched fists gave him away.

"Nothing hammered those nails out," Sherlock remembers John gritting out as he watched the video. "The portal pulled them."

Only four days ago they'd finished sealing it up with boards and drywall. Sherlock closes his eyes and recalls John's ashen face, slumped shoulders. How John had limped up to the broken and chipped drywall, no longer able to hide his pain.

"It's not only alive," John choked out. "It defends itself."

Sherlock had hesitated before resting his hand on John's back. It was a small act of comfort that he'd expected John to brush off. But he didn't. Instead, he had wearily dropped his head in defeat.

"And I'm its bloody living vessel."

That night, John had experienced the mother of all nightmares. It had taken hours for Sherlock to calm him. Holding John, he'd tried to distract him with soft whispers and soothing words, but the portal was always there between them.

"It seems the only thing it will tolerate is the bookcase," John had said after waking from a particularly bad dream.

"So it seems." Sherlock had drawn him closer, tucking John's head under his chin.

"If only that bloody bookcase were bigger" was John's reply.

Thus John shines another light! One text message and Mycroft had had a hardwood monster of a bookcase constructed very next day. The back planks were as thick as his wrist. As of last night, it had been still in place.

As Sherlock steps out the cab at New Scotland Yard, his eyes look up at the building. Do those thick ironwood planks remain intact? He will soon see.

People usually turn and gawk at him when he struts into NSY. Today he feels invisible, yet he knows he's not gone completely unnoticed as he struts across the lobby. Unless that is his intent, he never is.

The elevator door closes behind him. He's alone and closes his eyes, anxious as to what he'll find as it stops on the seventh-and-a-half floor. He opens them as the elevator slows and stops. He hesitates, flexes his fingers and gives them a shake before he steps into the corridor.

The elevator door chimes closed and hums as it returns to the ground floor. Sherlock bites his lip and holds his breath. The office door remains closed with its usual locks and safeguards in place. Sherlock unlocks the door and opens it. He waves up at the CCTV. If no one had noticed he was in NSY before this, they have now.

Holding his breath he turns toward the bookcase and wills it to be intact. He can't help but grin wide in relief at the polished, intact structure. The deep-red ironwood cabinet stands strong from floor to ceiling. Sherlock inspects it carefully. It's unblemished.

The elevator hums again, then dings.

Many respectable scientific studies have purportedly proved the power of positive thinking. He'd never given much credibility to them, but over the past twenty-four hours, he's used every cell in his body to visualise this positive outcome. The books remain aligned in neat rows just as they had left them a few days ago. He's inspecting behind the books when the door opens and Finney steps hesitantly inside.

"Lestrade told me you were here." He stands just inside the doorway and tips his head towards the bookcase. "So that's the new stronghold?"

Sherlock nods. It's hot in the room and he removes his coat to set it on the desk. "It is. It's one of the hardest woods known."

Finney stands tall, but his eyes are red, underlain with dark smudges from sleeplessness. His appearance is that of a man thrown together. He's clean-shaven, yet has nicks on his chin. His shirt is new but too new: he bought a new shirt instead taking time to have one laundered. His trousers are hastily hand-pressed.

"Tropical hardwood, often imbued with mystical properties. I hope it holds." Finney waits for Sherlock to nod to him before slowly walking over and sitting on the settee. His back remains ramrod straight, his legs stretched out awkwardly in front of him. "For your sake and John's."

Sherlock crosses his arms. He doesn't want to hear that it won't work, but he's more intrigued by Finney's involvement. He's suspected from the start that his investigation into the portal was more than simply being assigned to this office and his subsequent undercover work. Sherlock hesitates to approach him, but the man has kept to himself for the past few weeks. He's adeptly avoided Sherlock, but it seems that now he's ready to speak. Sherlock takes three quick strides and sits down next to Finney on the settee, his own long legs stretching out beyond Finney's.

"I know you've told me you don't know how to close this portal permanently, but I have researched the matter and spoken with various people about closing portals," Sherlock says. "Including those who refer to themselves as so-called 'expert's.' Mycroft, of all people, has actually considered an exorcism. I don't wish to resort to that." He bounces his foot impatiently.

"It's been tried before. Didn't work."

"I'm not surprised. But it's imperative that this portal becomes permanently disabled." 

"The Temple of the Living Window would never allow it. A sacred incantation keeps the portal open."

Sherlock snorts, half in disbelief and half in outrage. Finney speaks as if this cult were as nefarious and powerful as Moriarty. _Rubbish._

Finney drops his voice as he begins to recite: "Beware the truth, for it is a lie, and it will chain you."

"All this time, I thought the truth would set one free." Sherlock presses his finger to his bottom lip. "Chain you? A metaphor or literal chains?"

"Not sure. Actually, I'd be more worried about the members than some damned metaphor. Do heed my warning. Some of them aren't right—if you know what I mean. Met a few who would do about anything ta get inside the vessel, but they didn't dare try it. Some sort of oath they took. Only the chosen may enter. That's what's said..."

Sherlock sorts through usages for truth and lies: chiasmus, aphorisms, scriptures. He needs a connection. _The truth is a lie. Beauty is truth and truth beauty._ He comes back to "the truth will set you free."

Finney blinks and laughs. "Isn't that from the Book of John? There's irony for you."

Sherlock stares at him. He needs to get deep inside his mind palace and sort this: Bible verses, incantations, truth, lies, freedom, chains. There must be some sort of connection. Part of him regrets leaving John to write his next best-selling novel. He could have been here to shine some light. Sherlock sighs. Finney will have to be his beacon instead.

"What do you know about those who went inside their own portal?" Sherlock asks.

"I don't think I'd risk it. I heard a story from one of the members about a man who went inside his own head. He walked into a world where his head replaced everyone else's."

Sherlock's head jerks up. "John had that dream, that he went inside and everyone was him. Tell me, Finney, afterward? What happened?"

"Afterward? He ended up locked away in a mental institution. But I can't say entering the portal was the reason for his mental breakdown. I read some of the Temple logs..."

Sherlock's heart races. "Logs?" He can't help but grab the front of Finney's crisp cotton shirt. He releases him quickly, but not before Finney takes hold of his wrist and grips it tight. "Where are these logs? We found nothing like this in the church."

"They keep them...hidden." He's pinching Sherlock's wrist as he squeezes.

"And you saw them, how?"

"Years and years of being a member undercover put me in their good graces," he says, releasing his wrist. "I took my time, working on gaining their trust. It wasn't easy. They still blindfolded me, then took me on this good ten-hour jaunt into the Scottish Highlands to an old estate."

"Where? Tell me. What you read, what you learned. Tell me everything!"

"Well, for one thing, they never did trust me. I don't think they trust anyone, really. I could take ya to the estate. In fact, I went back not long after. It wasn't that hard to figure out where. But all the records had been taken away."

"Where to?"

"No idea. And I didn't get to read much when I had that chance, either. One thing I did learn: if another person stays in a body, the host's personality either adapts or doesn't." He clears his throat. "And it's not pretty when it doesn't. There are past instances of mental breakdowns, catatonia, and suicide from those who don't. The whole idea of a chosen person—I think it's just to keep too many members from trying to get inside. I doubt it's real, but I'm not sure. Maybe minds must be compatible, but really, what difference does it make? Some stranger is inside yer head and you can't never get them out."

Sherlock notices something odd about Finney as he speaks. His suspicions were correct. He's not the detached ex-police detective. Sherlock understands firsthand that lines can blur when working closely undercover with criminal elements. To achieve his objective, Sherlock has more than once resorted to a criminal's same Machiavellian methods.

"And I'm thinking that those who do are pushed aside so the other personality dominates. John doesn't strike me as the type to just let someone take him over, but after a time, people get worn down and..."

"No. He would never allow that to happen." No, John would absolutely never allow it. He would die first, and Sherlock's heart pounds as he thinks this. "When this person takes over the body, what happens to their own body, in the portal?"

"It disappears. It becomes part of the portal. At least that's what the writing implied."

"But a person could be pushed out, if the body is still there?"

"Yes, I assume so."

Finney's face flushes with anger. The revelation hits Sherlock: This is not about corruption or ethics or almost being murdered. Finney's emotional reactions give away a far more intimate connection.

"Were there ever cases where the person remained inside yet did not become the dominant personality?"

"Well, supposedly those chosen by the portal have the strength and desire to remain."

Sherlock took in Finney's expression: slack jawed, mouth tipped down, deep sadness in his eyes. His suspicion is confirmed. There's no denying Finney's distress at his last words.

"I need to know. You were _not_ simply assigned to that room. You were _not_ targeted for murder just because you were investigating it. I must know for John's sake. What was your true objective?"

"I never wanted inside, if that's what you mean. I like who I am."

"It's not what I mean."

"Yeah, I didn't think so." Finney looks down at the floor.

"I got mixed up in it for the same reason you're sitting here next to me now," Finney says, lips trembling. "Someone I cared about became a vessel." Finney takes a deep breath and raises his head to look directly into Sherlock's eyes. "I'm sorry, Sherlock, but it didn't end well."

Sherlock rests his hand on Finney's back. "I am sorry also, for what you lost."

"That's why I want to help you any way I can. Let's not lose anyone else." He hands Sherlock a slip of paper.

"What is this?"

"The name of the person I lost."

Sherlock doesn't unfold it until he's on the street.

\------------------------------

He steps out of the glass doors of NSY and unfolds the piece of paper. He presses his lips and clenches his jaw. His fingers itch for a cigarette. Instead he pulls out his mobile.

_John, what is the truth? SH_

Sherlock's mobile chimes immediately in reply as a cab rolls to a stop in front of him. 

_Why are you asking me this? What's wrong?_

Sherlock climbs inside. There's a name and an address on the slip of paper. He gives the cabbie the address and quickly texts John about Finney and the incantation. He doesn't, however, reveal where's he's going and why.

_It's something you said once, that I nicked and used in my last novel: when you have excluded the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth._

_That's my truth. What is yours? SH_

_Truth is one's own perception of the facts._

Sherlock closes his eyes. Interesting...he's in his mind palace as John is leading him around. Words spill into view, all synonyms for truth. He pulls each down with his fingertips and reads them carefully: authentic, veracity, axiom, gospel, facts. Next to him, John repeats them aloud.

"One's own perception."

"We're here, mate. I grew up not far from here. Stoke Newington. A nice neighborhood to raise a family, this. Plenty of green space to run."

Sherlock nods and throws the fare over the seat. Flinging the door open, he leaps out. Most of the local housing was completely rebuilt post WWII and in the 1960s the area became a bohemian hub. The address is the former residence of the person Jack Finney tried to save. Carefully printed on the note is the name Julia Charbonneau.

Sherlock steps up the door and knocks. His silver tongue is at the ready with a tale to get himself invited in, but there is no need. A gray-haired sixty-ish woman in a paisley dress waddles up the pavement to Sherlock with a friendly smile. Resides with a beagle and two cats. Watches what happens from her front window. Typical neighborhood busybody, Sherlock concludes.

"You won't be findin' nobody at home," she said. "No one lives here any more although it's taken care of as if someone do. Cleanin' crew arrive once a month. Same people year after year. A man visits often enough but never stays more 'n a day or two at a time. Been like this since I lived here goin' on thirty years. It's a shrine, it is. People say the woman killed herself."

"The man, you know his name?"

"Sure do. Jack. Jack Finney is his name. Works for New Scotland Yard."

"Thank you." Sherlock turns to the door. Jack should have given him a key. But he's Sherlock Holmes—he doesn't need a key. He walks around to the garden through the narrow alleyway and pries open a window. Easy enough to gain entrance. He wonders how many vagrants have done the same over the years.

Sherlock is certain this is how the rooms looked the day Ms. Charbonneau passed from this world. Jack has kept the rooms the same, this home the same just as the room on the seventh-and-a-half floor remains the same. A moment frozen in time. Is that what this is about? Does Jack think it still possible that his Julia will return?

Sherlock knows he doesn't really. But certainly there's a part of Jack that nonetheless holds onto hope that she will. The furnishings would be considered vintage today. Well-worn and well-cared-for appliances in the kitchen, none of them working. The refrigerator sits quiet, the sink dry. The kitchen table is unused, with little indication of a past life.A pencil is on the counter with a half-scribbled note on a pad next to a carelessly piled stack of old magazines. On the coffee table, cigarette butts lie stubbed out in the ashtray.

He wanders through the home from room to room. It feels as if someone has just left each room he enters. A bed is turned down, as if Julia will return to crawl beneath the sheets. An open book is left holding the next page she intends to read. _Rebecca_ by Daphne De Maurier. Even he, someone not well versed in popular culture, knew the first line: "Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again." He returns to the living room and sits down in a rocking chair next to a turquoise and brass table lamp. He closes his eyes, just to go into his mind palace and sort what he's seen.

But he doesn't actually get there. Instead he finds himself floating down a river, water swirling around and over him. Curious, he's looking up at a bright, blue sky. There are a few puffy cumulous clouds in interesting shapes. He thinks he sees unicorns. There are faces there too. It should be enough to wake him, he thinks, but he's still floating down the stream. Then he hears John calling from shore.

He opens his eyes, and there is no John on the shore, no blue skies, or fluffy clouds. It's dark. He realizes it's late. He often loses track of time in his mind palace, but this hadn't been that. He'd slept. He checks his mobile, and it's dead.

And so is he. John is certain to kill him. It's not only late: he's late.

The bachelor party. John will be livid. Murder would be too kind for this transgression. Would he withhold sex? Possibly.

Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit!

Sherlock is practically hyperventilating with panic. John wouldn't withhold sex. He'll understand.

_He will._

He wants to blame this place for making him sleep. Was some devious adversary pumping in some imperceptible sleeping agent to knock him unconscious? He suspects there's even some sort of theory Jack could give him, having to do with time and space and entering other people's bodies. All quite insane yet a common occurrence in his own life now, it seems. This Juila. He almost felt her there. He thinks Jack must feel her there. That's why he keeps the home as it is and why he returns.

Sherlock hopes he'll never finds himself in Jack's place.

All these are worrisome possibilities as to why he slept, but in more practical terms, he knows it's likely just his utter exhaustion.

Of course, now that Sherlock is simply desperate for a cab to appear, one doesn't.

By the time he gets to the party, it's past eleven o'clock. Sherlock scans the room. John is nowhere to be seen.

"About time you showed," Mike says. Mike is pissed as hell and swaying with a bottle of English whiskey in one hand. He laughs and tips it to his lips. He pats Sherlock's back with too much enthusiasm, pitching Sherlock forward. "John was fit to be tied, but after a dozen games of flippy cup, he hasn't mentioned it again."

"Where is he?"

"Last I saw him he was in the kitchen chatting up those actor friends of his...and playing strip poker." He jabs Sherlock in the ribs with his elbow.

Strip poker?

Sherlock rips the bottle from Mike's hands and takes two big gulps. The whiskey burns going down. He sputters and chokes, covering his mouth. Sherlock tips it up again. Three good swigs this time and no choking. He shoves the bottle into Mike's chest, sending part of its contents sloshing on Mike's jumper.

"Is he sniffing? A lot?"

"Why, yes..."

"Angry then," Sherlock mumbles as he spins around and beats a quick path to the kitchen. "Very angry."

He stops short in the doorway.

At the table John sits, leaning back in a wooden kitchen chair. He's obviously losing. His shirt is gone, and he's clad only in his red pants, white cotton t-shirt, and one navy blue sock. The actor chap, whom Sherlock immediately recognizes as John Finnemore, is winning. He has some of his booty piled next to him: belts, shirts and trousers. The rest of the winnings are draped off the backs of chairs and on the floor next to the players.

The whiskey still burns in his throat.

Finnemore is merely bare-chested, but he's wearing someone's white cotton pants on his head. Sherlock deduces they must belong to the shockingly handsome man with the blue eyes seated across from him. Sherlock recognises him as the other actor—the Tom Hiddleson chap. He's losing badly and down tosporting a pink tie around his neck.

He notices Sherlock in the doorway and half stands, oblivious to the fact he's starkers, and holds out his hand to shake Sherlock's. There's something about him that Sherlock immediately likes (other than the obvious). Sherlock takes a step into the room. John still hasn't noticed he's here. 

"You're just as handsome a bloke as John said you were," says Hiddleston, sitting back down. "He was mighty pissed at you earlier. Now he's just plain pissed."

John finally looks up at Sherlock, blurry eyed. "Sherlock!" he motions sloppily. "About time. Come in. I think I've got this hand."

Sherlock blinks. Something _is_ off. _Very_ off. John is not angry and he is holding his cards in the wrong hand. Worse, his stocking foot is massaging Finnemore's leg.

John's eyes meet Sherlock's, and the shock of John's cool blue eyes slams into Sherlock like bricks. He's not there. John is not there.

"Kitty?" Sherlock whispers as he steps closer.

"No," John giggles, but it's not John's bubbly giggle—it's a high-pitched twitter. "We're playing _strip_ poker-r," John slurs. "There not a kitty in strip poker."

No, not Kitty. But female. The portal has been compromised. And no notification from Mycroft! Even with a dead mobile, Mycroft always knows where Sherlock is. The CCTV would have revealed where and Mycroft would have contacted him. Or, more than likely snatched him off the street in one of his black sedans.

To Finnemore's credit, as John's foot becomes more adventurous and creeps up his leg, Finnemore pushes John's foot away. Finnemore blushes, knowing Sherlock and the others can see what's happening beneath the table.

"I never knew John was such a damned flirt," says Finnemore apologetically to the third man. He's also losing to Finnemore.

"Raise you my last sock," the man says. If he loses his sock, all he'll have left will be his grey boxers. "John got the name Three-Continent Watson for a reason."

Three continents? The third man is an army buddy of John's then.

John reaches out and pulls Sherlock's arm in a clumsy attempt to drag him onto his lap.

Sherlock lets him. John's trousers are hanging on the back of his chair, and scooting into his lap allows Sherlock to slip John's mobile out of his pocket. He's so inebriated, John doesn't notice. With the mobile in hand, Sherlock drops his arm down limply beside him, thumb nimbly texting.

_Mobile dead. John compromised. What is status of portal? SH_

The mobile vibrates. He expects John to notice, but he's too busy trying to fondle Sherlock under the table. Sherlock pushes him away with one hand while manipulating the mobile in the other.

He glances down at the mobile.

_Just notified moments ago. Investigating. MH_

John squirms around under him. Not good. Unless it's his John controlling his hand and that rather impressive erection under his bum, Sherlock wants no part of either.

_Now is too late. You did not prevent this as promised. I will take John home and wait for bodysnatcher to leave and John to return. SH_

"Hey, isn't that my mobile?" John tries to retrieve it from Sherlock, but the attempt is sloppy, like arms flailing on a marionette. He holds the mobile well out of John's reach. He's too pissed to do get it back.

Sherlock estimates from the game's progression and resultant missing articles of clothing that John's attitude changed about an hour ago, which means the person inside him entered the portal then. John's compromised state must have allowed the woman inside to assume control.

As Sherlock jumps from John's lap, John pinches his arse. He giggles manically. Sherlock is certain now who is inside John, and he doesn't care if she knows that he knows.

_It has been more than twenty minutes. Your men are inept. SH_

Inside John, Evie narrows his eyes.

"John, listen to me," Sherlock says. "You must push her aside."

"Oh, you naughty, naughty boy," she says with John's mouth. "Trying to get around me. He's blotto because you broke his poor little Johnny heart. He was easy to push into the corners. As for his little drunken heart, I intend to take it and make it all better."

"Talking in third person?" Hiddleston notices. "That's just creepy, Watson old boy. You really are fucking pissed. You'd better let Sherlock there take you home." 

"Oh, I'm not finished here yet." John winks at Hiddleston.

"Yes, I think that's precisely what I should do." Sherlock stands, hauling John to his feet. "Home it is, John."

John allows himself to fall heavily against Sherlock's chest and slithers his arm around Sherlock's waist.

"Home. Yes. I do want to go home..." He rests his chin in the crook of Sherlock's neck. "Home to Kevin. He'll be so happy to see us. You're welcome to come. We'd enjoy that. You'd be such a beautiful addition to our bed."

"Gads," says his army buddy. "You really are plowed! Isn't Kevin that bloke who asked you to marry him?"

"And his lovely, sexy, and talented wife," John adds, holding Sherlock even tighter. "I am so sorry I have to leave you. I did so much want to have fun with you boys."

"You might want to take your clothes," says Hiddleston. "I'll call a cab. If I can find my mobile..."

"Thank you," Sherlock says. "Come on, John."

John waves as Sherlock half-leads, half-carries him from the kitchen, stumblingthrough Mike's flat. John makes many loud and flirtatious goodbyes as the door shuts behind them. Sherlock drags John to the elevator.

"I want you out of John, now," Sherlock hisses.

"No. Not happening. I intend to stay, and I made sure I would. Not going back now."

"Stay. You're not..." but Sherlock doesn't finish his sentence instead he's calling Mycroft, but John's ringtone tells him Mycroft is already calling him.

"We have a serious problem," Sherlock says as he answers.

"Yes we do. It appears that Miss Evie Stark has overdosed. I think it best that you come directly here to New Scotland Yard and bring Dr. Watson with you."


	16. Chapter 16

What was the name of that James Bond movie John had made him watch just two nights ago? Octopussy! Yes, Evie Stark has transformed John Watson into Octopussy. He certainly has acquired more arms than Sherlock can seem to manage.

"Hey! Take that somewhere else," yells a crotchety passerby. "Yer on a public street!"

"You're going to get us arrested. Stop that!" Sherlock orders.Octopussy's made some gains in dexterity. Sherlock pries one hand off his bum only to have the other cup and squeeze his crotch. He's crossing his legs, holding the she-devil inside John at bay, but she's slippery.

He frantically waves for a cab, one slows, but the driver shakes his head and speeds away as he spies Sherlock's grope-fest.

Sherlock grasps one wrist, but he can't stop the other before it pinches at his arse. Another cab slows then zooms off.

Finally, a cab pulls up to the kerb. Sherlock rushes for the door before this one can speed away again. The driver shoots him a big-toothed grin and winks. He's grateful that the driver is obviously intrigued.

Sherlock flings the cab door open.

"New Scotland Yard," he shouts at the cabbie as he shoves John inside.

But that's not what Evie Octopussy wants to hear. John is only half inside the cab, and as Sherlock struggles to stuff the flailing remainder of John into the backseat of the cab, it's like pouring a bucket full of minnows into a teapot spout. Evie makes John's legs and arms thrash back outside. He can't close the door on him without damaging something. Sherlock finally resorts to tackling John flat down onto the backseat with himself on top.

"Go," Sherlock yells at the cabbie. The cab door slams shut with the help of Sherlock's nimble foot and the cab's momentum.

Lying on top of John, he's staring in his face. He brings one of his gloved hands up and pats John's cheek, trying to get him to come to the front, but Evie remains in charge.

"Please remove your hand from the back of my pants," Sherlock rumbles.

"What?" John blinks.

It's him! 

"John! Thank god, it's you. You've got tot push her out."

"Not Kevin's fault. He didn't know. Only Evie. She..." John's eyes go from cloudy to flashing bright lights. "Oh, you have such a tight bum. Is it just as tight here?"

Sherlock squeaks as a finger taps at the edge of his arsehole.

"Sorry," John blurts out. "Not me. Sorry."

"Quite alright. I just want it to be you and me. Always. Just us. John. Stay here with me."

"I'm trying, but she's spreading and clawing inside my head. I feel like my brain is being grated into pieces."

It terrifies Sherlock each time he sees John slip away. He needs to stay. He can't lose him. He mustn't allow it to happen. He firmly grasps John's head between his hands, his nose touching his.

"Hold on. We're almost there."

"What has she done?" John chokes out. "Why does this feel different? Permanent? Like she's making a nest in my head."

John knows. He knows. Sherlock kisses him on the lips. It's short but sweet, and the corner of John's mouth turns up.

"She's not. Hold on. We'll get her out. I'll get her out."

The mobile rings. Sherlock hesitates to remove his hands, but he must.

"Speak!" Sherlock barks. The rain beats down on the roof of the cab as they pull up to NSY.

"It took you long enough to get here. My men are waiting and will assist you."

Sherlock mashes the button to end the call and stuffs the mobile back into his pocket, dodging yet another attack of Evie-fingers.

The cab stops. The door flies open and hands reach inside as Mycroft's men drag them both out onto the pavement.

"Hey, mate! I don't want no trouble, but he owes me twenty-five pounds," the cabbie cries out.

What if Evie dies? What will happen to John? It's all Sherlock can think about as they race in through the doors with his hand on John's back. They push straight through the lobby to the waiting elevator.

Sherlock takes stock of John's appearance. He is ghastly white, cheeks hollow, hair plastered down on his forehead, and he's shaking as if he's just come in from a blizzard. Is he going into shock? Sherlock drops briefly into his mind palace surrounded by a storm of symptom lists, only to be pulled back out by John's voice.

"You can't make me go back!" John says, but it's not John. It's Evie inside him. She's broken through again. As Mycroft's men drag John into the elevator, gasps and yells explode around them—some from John but most are bystanders gawking at the spectacle.

The elevator doors shut, and they're all huddled together. John's body is racked with shivers, and Sherlock whips off his coat to wrap John up inside it.

"We never knew where the portal was," Evie says. Sherlock looks into the eyes of the man he loves, but there's no sign of him again. This is blasphemy of the worst kind to Sherlock.

"But I knew him," she continues using John's mouth, John's voice. "All it took was time and patience. I followed him. I followed him and found the portal. It took a while but I planned and I waited. And I won."

"Get out of John," Sherlock hisses and pulls at his own hair. The elevator isn't moving fast enough. He wants to climb out and push it to the seventh-and-a-half floor. He needs to force her out of John.

"Sherlock?" John says, reaching for him. Sherlock grasps John's shoulders. He must do this.

"John! John, stay in control."

"It's so hard." 

He turns to John. "I'm sorry, John." He will have to understand that there's only one way Sherlock can be sure she leaves. It's why he'd never promised John he wouldn't go inside again. He must do it now. He has no choice. He must push her out.

As the elevator door whooshes open, Sherlock leaps out with a single focus: to enter the portal.

"Kevin had to ruin it. He wanted John for himself," Evie shouts from behind him. "And now he will. He'll never know. Do you like how I chopped a hole into that horrible bookcase? It's all in pieces. Just like all your plans to keep me from him."

Mycroft's and Lestrade's voices become a droaning backdrop as everything unfolds in slow motion. Sherlock long legs carry him through the door of the office. There's blood on the walls and two of Mycroft's men on the floor. Books are strewn everywhere, splattered with blood and shards of wood.

"You've killed two men. You think you can just walk away from that?"

Evie laughs through John. It's high-pitched, cold, and bitter. Nothing like his John. "That shell of Evie inside the portal will never walk away. But the inside John Watson will."

Sherlock spins John around, and Evie allows it. "You are never staying inside John."

"I have nothing to go back to. I have nothing..." John's eyes become unfocused as he shudders.

The Evie that Sherlock remembers didn't look to have the strength required to hack the hole in the bookcase, yet there it was, a gaping wound. A stress response from the body can trigger adrenalized super-human actions.

Beneath his feet, Sherlock crushes a colorful variety of pills spilled all over the floor amidst the other wreckage. Opioids, he notices. Two of Lestrade's men block the portal entrance. Sherlock shoves them aside, one, then the other. They struggle to keep Sherlock from climbing inside, but he shimmies between them.

"Let him through," Mycroft orders from somewhere behind him.

One of them grabs Sherlock's foot and tries to pull him back, but Sherlock kicks with his other. He's free.

He knows what he must do: Push her out. He climbs deeper into the living, breathing portal. It moves and trembles, and he feels the heat of life beneath his hands as he crawls forward and down toward the body before him. He crawls and crawls until he reaches Evie.

He finds her tucked in a fetal position. He's not sure if it's the portal or his own heart that pounds in his ears, but it's deafening. Terror fills him the moment he touches her. She's cold and clammy.

I should have already pushed her out. Unless.

He feels for her pulse. It's feeble, it's faint, but it's there. He crawls past her in desperation. He may not have much time. He must get inside.

He feels the rush fill his mind, a whole kaleidoscope of colors. His mind spins as it leaves his body. This time it's different. He feels at home, welcome. That part that is John allows him inside.

He's shaking. No, John is shaking. John fingers pull his Belstaff tightly around him. He sees through John's eyes. He feels that part of John touching him. It's the most intimate feeling he's ever experienced.

"Get out!" she screams, but it's John's voice he hears from inside him. He swallows and chokes out in a panic. John is gone, and it's as if he's being pressed to death with heavy stone slabs. "Get out!" and this time it's John. His Captain John Watson is shouting orders at Evie, but she fights back and the weight on John's chest increases.

"There's no room for you," Sherlock says. "We are the ones who belong together, and you do not belong. Leave." Sherlock pulls the trigger for his neurons to fire. It's a silly notion, shooting Evie pointblank with nerve impulses, but it works. John picks up his version of a neurological Sig Sauer, aims, and fires her the fuck out of there.

John's groan shakes them on the cellular level. Sherlock reels as if he's on a spinning amusement park ride. John calls to him inside his head and his thoughts echo and reverberate.

"She's gone," John gasps.

It's a relief. The two of them are completely blended. Completely together. Sherlock closes John's eyes; John's smaller hands pat his own chest; Sherlock wraps John's arms around himself to try to slow the spinning. He's nauseated and faint. 

John bends over and vomits on Mycroft's shoes.

"You did that on purpose," Mycroft says, disgust thick in his voice.

"Goes without saying," Lestrade replies.

"She disappeared! She's gone from the tunnel!" one of Mycroft's men shouts.

"She'll be on the banks of Thames." Mycroft says, shaking his head. "Would someone get me a towel, please?"

"You think that's really going to help?" Lestrade asks with a snicker as he turns to Sherlock. "Despite what she's done, Mycroft made sure medics are waiting with my men on the bank where the portal exits."

One of Lestrade's men hands Mycroft a towel, which he in turn, attempts to hand to Lestrade.

"You're serious?" Lestrade asks. "I don't think so. Not in front of my men."

"My men are here as well."

"But they're _your_ shoes. I'm not kneeling down and wiping them off."

Mycroft raises his eyebrow. "Very well," he says and kneels. His mouth is a line of disgust as he wipes them clean. "She will be carted off to hospital where she will have her stomach pumped. Two fine men dead all to let her remain inside John Watson. Some people have such low standards. I do not understand the allure." Mycroft stands and holds out the towel at arms length between his fingers, then drops it at his feet.

"Shut it, Mycroft. But not before you tell me exactly how Evie Stark got inside this room."

"I assume that is Sherlock addressing me from within. I would explain but you should be able to deduce it all for yourself unless your wits are impaired by their current...location."

But Sherlock hardly needs to deduce it. John has flooded his mind with the pictures of Evie remotely disengaging the CCTV, then distracting Mycroft's men. It was so simple. A bit of cleavage, a wink, then the shot between the eyes. She had gone into a fury when she discovered the new bookcase. The stairwell provided the fire axe and although it required considerable effort, she had finally been successful at chopping through the new bookcase.

"After Sherlock is out of here," John says, tapping his head, "I want the portal gone. Destroyed."

Inside John's head, Sherlock shouts no. He won't take a chance at what it might do to John.

"I can't live like this," John says. "I need it gone."

"NO!"

"What a delightful exhibition of split personality," Mycroft says. "But Dr. Watson, I must agree with Sherlock. I will not permit it."

Not for the same reason, Sherlock thinks.

"The bookcase would make good tinder," John suggests, kicking the splinters of wood at this feet. "Burn it. Burn it down."

"You can't just start a bonfire in the middle of an office building!" Lestrade barks.

Sherlock doesn't wish to debate this— especially not while he's inside John's head. He'll have to let it drop. John is mentally exhausted and there's no need to tax him further this evening. They can finish this conversation later, when they are rested and in the privacy of their own home. A rational discussion. Each from within his own body.

A team of Mycroft's mighty minions swarm about in hazmat suits, cleaning and sterilizing.

"Hey," says Lestrade, "that's evidence."

"Which will be properly taken care of, I assure you," Mycroft says.

"That's what I'm afraid of." Lestrade shakes his head as the two dead men are zipped into body bags. He turns to John. "You'll need to come downstairs for a debriefing."

"That will not be necessary," Mycroft interjects. "You and Sherlock will go back to the Thames and wait together under guard until he arrives. Mrs. Evie Stark is no longer a problem. One of my drivers is waiting downstairs. Please refrain from vomiting in the car. I had it cleaned only yesterday."

Mycroft doesn't want them unguarded, but John insists on at least some distance for privacy. While looking up at the London night sky, they rest on the bank waiting for Sherlock's mind to return to his body. It's no longer raining and the clouds have parted. A full moon lights the way, casting a long shadow of a man standing at the top of the back. It's one of his homeless network watching them—or, as he sees it, John Watson.

To him, John Watson seems to have lost touch with reality, sitting in the muck and jabbering away to himself.

"You did it. You bloody did it even after I asked you not to do it," John says.

"I had to do it. I had no choice. She had to be forced out."

"I understand, but I still don't like it. What if you can never leave?"

"That would never be the case. There must be a desire to stay. I hardly think I am one of the so-called 'chosen'."

"If I could choose, it would be you." John sighs. "I suppose it wouldn't be the end of the world if you stayed, but I can't imagine how confusing the sex would be."

"Oh, I can. I'm a genius, you know."

"Prat."

They doze off together. Sherlock really does need the rest before he slides out into the mud of the banks.

\---------------------------

Dear Sherlock,

I know the moment you saw this letter resting on the table you'd know what's in it. I imagine at this very moment you're reading it as you race out of our flat to call a cab. I'm sorry I had to do it like this, but you refused. I know, I know. I'd said I wouldn't. I lied. I didn't want to lie, but you left me no choice. After me lecturing you about what is a bit not good, this is a bit of a not good role reversal. And I am sorry about that, but not for what I'm about to do.

Calling Mycroft at this point will do no good, so take your fingers off the keys and quit texting him. It's already happened. In fact, I'm sure Lestrade is calling you. It was really rather easy to arrange. After what you told me about Finney, I knew where to go. Please don't be angry with him. He really had no choice. You're not the only one who knows how to blackmail others emotionally.

Anyway, no matter how it turns out, you must know by now that although I've never said it, I love you. God knows, I've stopped you from saying it to me so many times. I'm sorry for that. If you'd have said it, I'd have had to say it back. But I couldn't, knowing someone else could take my place in my head and say those words to you too and not really mean them. You deserve much more than that. You deserve to be certain that it's me and to be certain that I love you.

In case this all goes tits up, I do love you. And despite me keeping you from saying it, I know you love me too.

John

He's read it at least ten times over. Lestrade has called him, Mycroft as well. Emergency vehicles line the street as the cab reaches NSY. Sherlock throws the door open and the smell of smoke reeking with burnt flesh slams into him. He leaps out before the cab stops and stumbles up the steps as he rushes through the gawking crowd.

He can't avoid the chatter even as he pushes the bystanders aside. Bits of comments fly behind him as he wheels through the doors: "the fire's out," "only one casualty," and "they're taking him out now."

He spins around in the lobby, listening. There's a mass of people milling about, but it's controlled. The elevator is blocked, and he's about to race to the stairwell, pushing his way through, when Donavan grabs him by the coat.

"They're taking him out the back," she hisses, pulling him along. "Don't cause a scene."

"John," Sherlock whispers and races inside alongside her down corridors and out the back of the building. Sherlock's eyes are fixed on the stretcher. His heart beats in his ears and he's sweating. He pushes past Mycroft and Lestrade, who are talking to Finney, and drops hard to his knees next to the stretcher. He ignores the protest of the three attending medics. He grasps John's limp hand and squeezes it, and brushes his wet bangs from his pallid face, smudged in soot and with eyes closed. His skin is still warm beneath his fingers.

Sherlock's fingers brush his face and go to the curve of his neck. A faint but steady pulse. The medics grumble at Sherlock but with Mycroft's nod, they resume working around him, taping up the IV, recording his vitals. John's face beneath the oxygen mask is relaxed, expression serene.

He bends into John, his own lips trembling in fear. "John? John?" Sherlock calls softly, brushing his thumb across his brow. "Can you wake up John? Can you do this for me?" 

"He's not likely to answer you while he's unconscious," Mycroft says.

"Yes, thank you. I can see that," Sherlock spits back but doesn't turn from John's face. His bottom lip trembles. His face is wet. When did that happen?

"He was like this when Lestrade found him. Finney said he collapsed as the portal began to burn."

A sick, thick pressure fills his chest. He caresses John's face with the back of his hand.

Sherlock sighs and presses his forehead to John's. "John? It's Sherlock. Please wake up. I love you."

John remains silent to his plea. Sherlock feels a sob break from inside him. He can't stop it. "Don't let it win," he begs.

Sherlock blinks back tears as he recognizes the worn orthopedic oxfords that step up next to him. Finney drops down, his knees popping as they meet the floor.

"He splashed the petrol we brought over the walls and floor. When he strucked that match, I thought I heard it groan," Finney says to Sherlock.

Sherlock blinks. He doesn't look at Finney. He's still watching John's face, looking for a sign, any sign.

"I din't never hear or seen nothin' like it" Finney sounds as though he's on the verge of tears himself.

While Finney's clothes are covered in soot, Sherlock sees no blisters, no burns. The orange shock blanket drapes around him loosely and contrasts with the blank mask of an expression he wears. His voice betrays him as it shakes and quivers.

"When he tossed in the match, it full well screamed," he says. Sherlock feels his warm breath on his neck. "It weren't just one voice. Sounded like a hundred sufferin souls crying out. As it burned I could have sworn I heard..." Finney covers his face and sobs openly into his hands. "Julia..." His hands slip from his face and reveal a man in a desperate need of reassurance that Sherlock can't provide. John needs him. Only John.

"Them voices weren't screaming in terror," Finney continues. "It almost sounded like they was cries of relief. It were like a part of them remained in that hell. I hope those people are at rest. I hope John..." He tugs at Sherlock's sleeve. "It's like he knew this was gonna happen."

Sherlock shakes his head. He calls to John inside his head, but there's no answer.

"Sherlock?" Finney draws nearer to him, concerned.

"There's no need for worry. John Watson is in capable hands and I have been assured that all he requires is rest. He has merely experienced a shock, Sherlock," Mycroft says. For a man who is always so certain of himself, Sherlock doesn't think that Mycroft sounds as though he believes any of what he's just said.

"Do shut up Mycroft. I don't want to listen to you right now and neither does John. Why don't you go eat some cake or do something you're good at, since you clearly weren't good enough to prevent this from happening." 


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The idea for Being John Watsonish came to me while talking about the film Being John Malkovich with a few of my friends. It occurred to me what I could do with this in an alternate universe. I had the idea: introduce a Sherlock Holmes without his Watson, then have him slip inside the mind of John Watson in much the same way the movie presented. Since I only used he movie as a vague guide, it wasn’t necessary to see the film. A Sherlock Holmes without his Watson? Never. Sherlock Holmes as John Watson? Better.
> 
> I’ve always been a huge sci fi fan. Most of what I write often leans that way or magical realism. This was perfect mix. So I made an outline and told my beta extraordinaire, recently folded, my plans.
> 
> I wrote the first chapters without showing her at first. Then I had to share. Each week I’d wait for recently folded to unfold her edits, comments, and suggestions for the chapters. It was this process I looked forward to as much as the original creation. For this particular story, the editing often became central to what happened next in the plot. Sure, I had that outline. I’m actually pretty obsessive about outlining my stories (just ask recently folded about my elaborate color-coded google spreadsheet), but I never strictly adhere to them. Oh, after I begin to write I’ll check where I’m at and what’s up next, but often the story slips off outline. With this story, I had less than half written before we started publishing it to AO3, and I was completely off the outline halfway through, so the “what’s up next” was “out the window.” (So sorry to recently folded on my use of scare quotes).
> 
> The story morphed as I wrote. Maybe you’ve read (and if you’re a writer yourself, you know), that characters seem to have minds of their own and take over a story. This happened a few times with Sherlock and John’s exploits in Being John Watsonish. 
> 
> As for secondary characters, I owe my Mycroft to recently folded. I suck at Mycroft, but she’s got his stuffed shirt persona down (along with John’s sniff). She added some great zingers and suggestions for the story and pushed me to show more instead of tell. And some of my really funny typos added a bit of humor along the way. As for checking for plot holes, she kept track of the story better than I did, making sure I didn’t throw something out there and not use it later (aka Chekov’s gun scenarios) or to not use a cumbersome butterfly kisses during a sex scene.
> 
> Betas and editors are essential to the progress of any story. I’ve been so fortunate to have the best betas as a fan fiction writer. From the bottom of my heart, I thank you recently folded and the other betas who came before you I’ve had the honor of working and collaborating with: @mrbotanyb (my co-writer and friend), Lieutenant Wolf aka aesteraa, judy_blue_cat, Tiriel_35, sierralois and the Princess of Geekdom AND all the people who beta out there. You are the best of the best. Thank you again, recently folded. Your time spent on my chapters is always well above and beyond that of mere mortals. I value your judgement and care you take with all of my words and ideas.

Only sleeping. That's what Sherlock chooses to think. Brow unwrinkled, mouth relaxed, not a hint of tension around his eyes. Merely resting. Peaceful dreaming in untroubled slumber. No nightmares. At least that's something to be thankful for.

But it's been too long. John has been sleeping for weeks.

For six long weeks, Sherlock has held his hand and rarely left the private room where John is lying comatose. The heart monitor beeps, nurses come and go changing his IV contents and checking his brain functions, yet his eyes remain closed. While his pupils are normally reactive, he fails to respond to other stimuli. He is closed off to the world.

The painful irony remains that the very thing John was trying to avoid is what has happened: he has become locked inside his mind.

At least no one can get inside with him anymore.

Although John may be alone in his head, Sherlock remains at his bedside to reassure John that he is not alone. Sherlock will never abandon him. He tells him stories of his childhood, playing pirates with Redbeard. He reads John pages and pages from JRR Tolkien and Ian Flemming. He performs Mendelssohn "Lieder" and other favorites on his violin. Still, John still sleeps.

Sherlock shares with John pieces of himself he's never revealed, confessing his dark times: tales of his temptations and triumphs over his addiction. He tells the story of his struggle with James Moriarty and how this obsession swapped one addiction for another. Sherlock also bares his heart, his soul hoping John will hear. Through it all, John's expression remains placid. He asks for John's opinion, his light, and waits for a response. But none comes. Still.

He reasons that maybe John can hear but can't wake.

He continues on that assumption: that although John may not be cognitively aware, on some level John does hear. His John may not speak or move, but he is there somewhere. And, if only...if only Sherlock could go back inside his mind and pull John out. He must have patience. John will wake. John must wake.

At least Evie is gone. The only visitors John experiences now come from the outside. Even the outside guests have trickled off over the last week, but a few still come daily.

At first Sherlock hated the visitors, but he knew that John would appreciate his friends even if Sherlock didn't. He is also well aware that familiar voices speed recovery in coma patients. Therefore, he has suffered the company. But that doesn't mean he has to suffer through Mycroft's hateful daily visits. And Mycroft always ignores the usual visiting schedule, pestering him instead at all hours.

It is no different today.

"Do leave," Sherlock says, blurry eyed. "It's far too early in the morning for your worthless advice. The sun isn't even up."

Sherlock stretches and climbs out of the bed next to John's. He slowly stands and moves to the chair beside John's bed and crosses his legs.

Mycroft checks the time on his pretentious fob watch. "It's not that early. This is hardly the place for sufficient rest. Your continued hovering over John will not revive him any faster. You know that you need to go to your flat and sleep in a proper bed."

Sherlock hates the condescending look on his face. His little visits are as unnecessary as they are offensive.

Mycroft steps up to Sherlock and looks down at him, only making things worse. Why must he continue to check up on them both? This clearly means it's time for Sherlock to deliver Mycroft's daily reminder of how he's failed. Sherlock is compelled to play out this scene daily in front of John. Always, always in hopes that John will suddenly sit up and help him throw Mycroft from the room.

"His condition is your fault."

"While he did choose to burn the portal, the blame rests with no one. This insistence on your part of attributing blame solves nothing. Although I will admit that blaming me is a somewhat healthier solution than that of the first two weeks, when you blamed yourself and simply wallowed in self-pity."

"Stop psychoanalyzing me. I had enough of that years ago. Go away and leave us alone. You knew what was going on and you let him do it. You couldn't control or harness the portal, so you let him destroy it instead. And John bore the cost of your failure!"

"So you keep telling me."

Sherlock is unable to stifle a yawn despite his anger. "With all your vast resources, there must be something more you could do. Another doctor. More research. There must be something that we've missed, some way we can bring him out of this."

Sherlock feels as though he's stuck reliving this same moment in time over and over, playing out what happened to John. He repeats these same words to Mycroft daily, and his brother responds in kind.  
"I can make no assurances, but know, dear brother, that I am doing everything within my power to determine the cause and cure. As you well know, it's in his favour that there is little neurological damage. Until we can discover some new line of treatment, his best hope lies with time and rest."

"Cause? I know the cause. This is the result of the portal. Your failure to control the portal is what inflicted this state on John. To expect time and rest to effect some miraculous cure is preposterous. There's something else we must be able to do. If you can't tell me what it is, then find someone who can!"

"He is healing. Which would seem to be a process that you require as well." Mycroft steps around to the other side of the bed. "That and some proper sustenance. It is imperative that you keep up your strength for when Dr. Watson awakens and really needs you. Gregory has repeatedly said that he would be more than happy to sit with John whilst you take some time for yourself. Shave. Take a bath."

Sherlock uncrosses his legs and sits forward in the mercilessly hard plastic hospital chair. His fingers brush over the sheet, then reach under it for John's hand.

"I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself. I have meals brought to me, and I sleep well enough here." All of which is correct. He could never rest in another bed knowing John is alone here. He realized months ago that he sleeps far better next to John, and John does, with him, as well. He gives John's hand a squeeze, carefully avoiding the tangle of IV lines and monitor wires.

"I took a shower just last night. As for shaving, John rather likes the rugged look."

Mycroft snorts his disapproval, but stands and leaves them.

Sherlock closes his eyes for a moment as he lovingly brushes his thumb across John's knuckles.

Over the passing weeks, John's friends have come and gone. Mycroft had had each person vetted before they were allowed inside. Simon hadn't appreciated it, but then, like everyone else, he thought John's coma was the result of an injury from some crazy murder case John got himself tangled up in chasing Sherlock. His agent, David Tennant, came up yesterday and talked to them about the new production of John's novel, ending with a plea for him to wake.

"I wish you'd stop all this lying about," Tennant had scolded. He'd pressed his lips together tighter, then sighed. "I know, I know...I told you once that having a client fall into a bloody coma is the next best thing for publicity short of dying, but I didn't actually expect you to listen to what I say. Since when do you ever listen to anything I say, John? It matters fuck-all to me that your book sales have skyrocketed. I want my bestest and favoritist author back."

He had sighed and turned to Sherlock then, thrusting his hands into his trouser pockets in frustration. "He hates it when I make up words. He always scolds me when I do." He turned back to John on the bed, making one last dramatic plea. "Bloody scold me, John! Sit up and tell me what a daft wanker I am! Honestly, you've taken this...stunt...to the extreme."

Sherlock likes his energy, his wit. And the fact that he genuinely cares for John. He really hate to see David leave. Once he was gone, though, Sherlock had told the nurses they'd receive no more visitors for the day.

Today the visiting schedule is to begin anew in a few hours. Waiting, Sherlock crawls under the sheet next to John.

A nurse disturbs him two hours later, checking John's vitals and changing his IV. She's also brought Sherlock coffee and a fruit cup.

"Would you like anything else to eat Mr. Holmes?" she asks. "That's hardly enough to keep a bird alive."

"No. Thank you." Normally he wouldn't stoop to such niceties, but just in case John is listening...

A moment later, Simon pops his head in the door. "Morning, Sherlock. Morning, John."

"Thank god it's you. Please come in. I don't think I could stomach another visit from Mycroft."

"Another? He's been here already? You poor bloke. Can't say as I blame you. Your brother is a bit of a tight arse. Is he back to trying to make you eat again?"

"Of course."

"Maybe you should. John told me once that compromise is a friendly agreement where both parties get what they don't want," Simon said. "He said those weren't his original words, but I prefer to believe they were. You could do with a bit of compromise. Let's say you at least eat. I can sit with John while you get a bite."

"I have some fruit and coffee."

Simon pulls out a chair from the wall and sits. "Hmm. I'd think you'd need more than fruit and coffee to live on."

"I've lived on less before. He did often compromise with me: he let me do what I wanted."

"It's true that John did too much of that sort of compromising. But it wasn't with you. When he met you, that all changed, didn't it John?"

On more than one occasion Sherlock has considered telling Simon exactly what happened, but he doubts he'd believe a word.

"No more sharing a relationship," Simon says. "Speaking of which, I saw Kevin waiting down in the lobby. He said yer brother won't let him up to see John. He said that some seriously scary people took him off to this big important-looking building, then interrogated him," Simon continues. "He said they really raked him over the coals about belonging to some church."

This is the first Sherlock has heard this. He would have liked to have been in on that interrogation, but it would have meant leaving John alone. Still, if Kevin were to be allowed up to see John, Sherlock would get a chance to speak with him in person. Sherlock waits until after Pegg concludes his visit and texts Mycroft, demanding that Kevin Stark be allowed to come up.

Not ten minutes later, Kevin rushes in and halts just inside the doorway, staring at Sherlock's hand grasping John's on the bed.

His eyes narrow, his chin juts out. He is radiating hatred for Sherlock. "Oh, you're here."

"Of course I'm here. Where else would I be?" Sherlock squeezes John's hand.

"I don't know." Kevin stiffly steps inside the room. "Solving homicides, chasing after murderers, getting your friends injured. Isn't that why John is lying on that bed in a coma?"

"No. You know why he's there, and it's not because I injured him."   
  
Kevin ignores his comment. "That's what the tabloids are saying. He got clobbered by some homicidal maniac while John was chasing after him with you," Kevin says bitterly. He doesn't spare a glance for Sherlock. Instead, his eyes fix on John's face as he walks toward the foot of the bed.

"Homicidal maniac? That would be your wife. Or ex-wife. If you want to put the responsibility for what happened somewhere, it belongs on her shoulders. John would not have burned the portal if it weren't for her and the others like you."

"Portal? What portal? What are you talking about?"

Voice modulation unchanged, his facial expression matches the content of what he's said. All biological indicators support the deduction that Kevin believes he's telling the truth, yet he is not. Kevin is highly empathetic and exhibits no narcistic characteristics; therefore, he is not a sociopath. He knows those characteristics well as one misdiagnosed of that antisocial disorder.

Only possible explanation: Kevin has convinced himself on a psychological level that he is innocent in all this. Sherlock has witnessed this defense mechanism before. It's a way to remove blame from one's self, and therefore, to limit telegraphing any sense of guilt.

"We were happy," Kevin says. "The three of us were going to get married. Everything was fine until he met you. You poisoned him against us. All of this is your fault."

Yes, he's intentionally, throwing aside concrete evidence of John's own actions and Kevin's that doesn't fit into his own ideal version of the world. Time to remind him of what he's so conveniently forgotten.

"How quickly you seem to have forgotten the Temple of the Living Doorway." Sherlock releases John's hand and crosses his arms. "Evie introduced you to the church. You went to services there on numerous occasions with her. That's how you came to be so obsessed with John Watson, is it not? Then you helped Evie lure him in—using Evie as bait. A chance meeting in a coffee house, no doubt. What then? She suggested the naughty little tryst that turned to so much more. Somehow it went from just body snatching to something deeper on your part. All this was never your intention in the beginning. The plan was for Evie to enter his body as one of the chosen. But it changed when you fell in love with John Watson the man, not John Watson the Living Vessel. That unexpected turn changed everything, didn't it? What did you think would happen? That you'd marry the Living Vessel and live happily ever after?"

Sherlock understands how Kevin Startk feels all too well. He loves John Watson the man with all his heart. All the world should love John Watson.

"And that idea didn't sit well with your wife Evie at all, did it?"

Kevin doesn't answer. The room falls silent except for the steady beep, beep of John's heart monitor.

Tears begin to drip, then run down Kevin's face. His gaze drops as he neither wipes his tears away nor continues with his denials. He reaches his hand out to rest it atop John's blanket-covered foot.

"You may not have wanted John Watson in the beginning," Sherlock says quietly, "but in the end, he's all you wanted. You threw away your marriage for him."

He moves his hand away, but he's still staring at John. "Where is Evie? What have you done with her?" He is outright sobbing now.

"Now you care? Maybe you should be asking yourself this, given that you were the one who tossed her aside. But if you must know, I've done nothing with her. Speak to the man in charge of interrogating you. My brother. He knows where she is."

Kevin's face pales at Sherlock's final words.

"We could have had a good life," he mutters. "Goodbye, John." He bows his head, ignoring Sherlock, and he walks out the door without looking back.

Sherlock knows he should feel bad about his last few words. Well, he does. Almost.

For the rest of his morning, Sherlock tells John about Mummy. It's silly stories of her, mostly, stories that his mummy would be horrified to know he's sharing. Especially the adventures he'd had when he was seven years old and she left him behind at Paddington Station.

It's about three o'clock when Finney arrives. Besides Mycroft, Lestrade, and Kevin Stark, Finney is the only one who knows what's really happened to John. Sherlock is never one to expose his feelings, but with Finney, he lowers his defenses. He tells Finney about Mycroft's and Kevin Stark's visits.   
"You can blame everyone all you want, but in the end, John made his own choice. You know he did."

Sherlock nods. It's much easier to stomach this painful point when it comes from Finney, not Mycroft. But that doesn't change the fact that he simply can not stand idle and watch John slip from him.

"He needs to wake up. He has to wake up," Sherlock says.

Finney is holding back, and Sherlock knows why. Sherlock believes in what is seen and visible in the world. He believes in science. Finney does not. At least not always.

It's obvious why. When faced with the unknown, people have always pointed to superstition, magic, or the supernatural instead of sound, logical explanations. The application of deduction explains it all: bad luck is merely a matter of personal perception, disappearing acts merely illusions, and reading minds just keen observational powers. Despite all that has happened, Sherlock still believes in science. Finney would like to believe in something magical, something that could restore the one he loves. Sherlock completely understands that sentiment. While he used to hate the gentle emotions, now he embraces them to a degree. There is a time and place for trusting one's intuition. In this case, he will embrace the irrational. For John. For love.

Sherlock grips John's hand in his. He takes a deep breath to keep from sobbing.

In the end, Sherlock believes that love must have a scientific basis—just as there is a scientific explanation for all that has happened. Man's scientific knowledge simply isn't advanced enough to reveal the facts behind these mysteries.

"The prognosis becomes more and more dire as days tick by," Sherlock explains. "The longer one remains in a deep state of prolonged unconsciousness, the less likely they are to ever awaken. If I could only go inside his head to wake him, bring him back, I would. If only there were some bit of magic."

Sherlock waits now. He's given Finney his opening.

"What if there was a way?" Finney hesitates. "I'm not saying it'd work, but it mebbe wouldn't hurt to try."

"You've done this before."

"I did. It worked once, and then I tried to go back. But it never worked again. I could never recreate it. Hell, maybe it never worked and I'm just a crazy man who wanted so hard to believe it could happen that I imagined I was with Julia in my own mind."

"But maybe you're not crazy."

"It's like she was there with me. I swear she was. It was like a dream but not. Not quite the past and not quite the present. It's like I was inside Julia's mind in a dream state."

"Explain how you did it, how I can replicate it."

Finney trembles a bit and fidgets with the ring on his right hand. A gift from Julia, Sherlock concludes.

"You're upset," Sherlock says. He never knows what to do in such emotional situations, so he sits and waits for Finney to continue. When he does not, Sherlock begins for him.

"I believe I know part of it. It must have to do with a state of being, placing one's self inside that space and time. Hence locking those places in a moment of time as was done in the office on the seventh-and-a-half floor, your own residence, or Julia's house."

"Yes." Finney jerks his head up. "How do you know that?"

"It's not magic. It's deduction."

"So you say."

"How do I get to that place and help John out of his mind?" Sherlock asks.

"Where have you spent more time with him than anywhere else?"

Sherlock looks around and swallows. "This room."

"But John doesn't know this room."

"No, he does. I've told him about it in every detail from the orchid-flowered curtains to the laminated cherry and chrome tables."

"Then we'll try here first. If it doesn't work, I'd suggest trying either your flat or his."

"We spent more time at his although he did have an affinity for mine. What would you have me do first?"

"You need to relax. Be comfortable. Lying down worked best for me. I suggest scootin' in next to John on the bed."

Sherlock doesn't hesitate. He spreads himself out alongside John, spooning next to him on his side. It's a comfort he longs for with every breath. He's done this often enough during the endless weeks, hoping upon hope that John will wake, reach out, and take Sherlock in his arms again. He takes hold of John's hand again to bring it to his mouth and kiss it. Sherlock hopes that his wish will help reach John.

"You need to get inside his head. Don't treat it as if you're goin' into his mind. Ya need to push yourself out of your own head into this other world that's this room with both of you standin' in it. Can't have no outside interference. I'll need to leave you to it alone for it to happen."

Finney gets up to go.

"Wait. That's all?"

"That's all."

"But the nurses..."

"I'll take care of 'em and ask when I leave that they don't disturb ya until you notify 'em. Outside sounds can pull you outta it, but the sounds in this room and hallway are part of the stage and shouldn't interfere. If ya want I could guard outside the door until you call out, to make sure no one comes in?"

"With Mycroft watching, that may actually cause more of a disturbance." Sherlock bites his lip. "What do I do when I get inside?"

"I can't rightly tell ya. But my impression is that if it does work, you should be able to speak ta him, convince him ta take back control of his own head 'n use it agin."

As Finney quietly shuts the door, Sherlock holds John's hand tighter and closes his eyes. He needs to leave his head rather than become immersed in it, so he can't use the same technique he uses to enter his mind palace. He remembers how he thought he'd fallen asleep at Julia's home and wonders if he hadn't entered Julia's dream world then.

He lets his mind focus on a point in John's hospital room—the very spot he reclines. He frames his mind to the space just outside himself and wills his inner self to separate and sit up. He feels no different. He does this again and again. He envisions it his mind's eye, yet he remains bound to the bed inside his own body.

This goes on for hours. It's as if an invisible elastic band holds him in place, refusing to release him.

"Why isn't this working?" he grumbles. "John, tell me: why isn't this working?"

He can hear John say to him in his head: Because you expect it. Because you want it. Relax. Rise up. Let go. Let it happen.

He begins to drift as if to sleep until he feels a pull. He looks down to see he's no longer on the bed. He's hovering above it with John beneath him. Purposefully, he floats to a spot on the floor next to the bed near the chair.

"Get out of bed, sleepy head," Sherlock calls, repeating the familiar words his mummy used to wake him mornings he'd slept late. "John. Come out of there."

He tries not to assess what he feels too closely for fear that his control will evaporate. His feet are on the floor, yet he feels nothing while standing; he's transparent, yet when he touches John's face, he can see his hand against his soft beard.

"John get up and tell me you love me. Say it to me," he pleads. "Don't leave me with nothing but a note to remember your words."

Sherlock's heart—or at least his projected version of one—races as John's foot moves beneath the hospital blanket. John's hand twitches and his eyelids flutter. In a blink, John is no longer on the bed. He stands before him, arms outstretched and looking down at himself in wonder, all bare-legged and clad in a flimsy hospital gown.

"Finally." Sherlock gives a dreamy grin. "So. Aren't you going to say it?"

"Yes, you insufferable wanker. I love you. There. I said it. Now your turn."

"But I have expressed those very words numerous times over the last six weeks."

"Yes, but I was lying in a coma. I'd like to hear it when I'm lucid."

"This isn't lucid. You're still in the coma."

John brow furls in confusion.

"We're inside your mind. Meeting halfway, you might say. But you do need to wake up, John. You need to wake all the way up."

"Say the words then..."

"Only after you open your eyes. I'll say them sweetly when you wake."

"Well, that's no fucking fair."

"What is that old chestnut? All's fair in love and war?"

"Bloody hell. If I must. You promise to say them sweetly?"

"Yes, my love. So sweetly that it will rival the music of the spheres. So sweetly that the angels in heaven will covet our love. So sweetly..."

"I get it! I'll wake up already if you'll just shut it you big berk."

A flash of light fills the room. Sherlock almost rolls off the bed, but sturdy arms hold him in place. John's sturdy arms.

"Hello, love," John says, voice hoarse from disuse.

"John!" Sherlock kisses him hard on the lips.

John blinks. "I've been sleeping. Or I think I have. I remember stories..." He pulls Sherlock tighter to his chest and kisses his forehead. "But I seem to have lost some of my strength."

"It will come back soon."

"I was trapped inside, searching for the way out."

"Like my mind palace?"

"It wasn't a place. It was dark, but I could hear you. I felt you near me, but every time I tried to reach out, I couldn't touch you. Everyone was outside of my head, and I couldn't get to them. People I know, my friends. I even heard bloody David ranting at me. And I kept hearing you call to me, but I couldn't find you no matter how hard I tried. And you told me stories about hobbits and...and you played for me," John looks beside the bed and smiles at the violin. "I didn't imagine that."

"No, you didn't.

"I don't know how you bloody did it, but thank you," John whispers.

"Now, say it."

He takes a deep breath, filling his lungs with all that's John.

"I love you. You are my heart. My world. My all."  
\---------------------

Epilogue with gratuitous sex and happy ever after.

Twelve months later...

"I don't know how you talked me into moving into this place. It's way too small." John comes in the door with a bag of groceries and stomps the snow from his feet.

"You love me. And you love this place. Every atom inside me knows it."

"At least we have Mrs. Hudson," he says, juggling the bag as he removes his coat. "She's a treasure. You'll need to tell me some time how you met. She mentioned something about a husband and a drug cartel. Sounds like fodder for a new novel."

"No rows with the chip and pin this time?" Sherlock asks.

John laughs as he carries the bag into the kitchen and plops it on the counter.

"Not today." He pulls ice cream, biscuits, tomatoes, eggs, and a bottle of wine from the bag. He begins to rummage through the cupboards, and Sherlock hears the clinks of glass against glass. "I think a celebratory drink is in order. Six months living with you, and my first televised episode. Don't you have anything that's safe to drink out of in here?"

Sherlock slides up behind him and reaches over his head to the top shelf to retrieve two wine goblets. He blows the dust out of one and then the other before he hands them to John.

"You said safe, not clean," Sherlock grins.

John chuckles and his eyes twinkle as he twists the corkscrew and shimmies the cork from the wine bottle. There is nothing in this world like John's eyes when he smiles, Sherlock thinks.

They settle down to watch John's first episode, "A Study in Pink" on BBC One, sipping wine and eating take-away with chocolate ice cream for desert.

"Really, John. Did you have to reduce yourself to Ian Flemming's level? Your protagonist Martin Freeman should clearly adhere to the science of deduction rather than relying on flashy and unrealistic gadgets," Sherlock complains.

"Blame David for that. I was a bit indisposed when some of the production decisions were made for parts of this episode."

"Hmm. And what happened to your Martin? He was clearly gay in your novels."

"He is here. Or, he will be. We needed to add a bit of sexual tension between them. The romance needs to build from episode to episode. Until...the kiss."

"As long as it's not queer-baiting," Sherlock sniffs.

"How do you even know what that is? Never mind, I don't want to know. Next thing you'll be telling me is that you've been reading fan fiction on that 3-archive or whatever site."

"What are you going on about? Still, it's clear that Ben is smitten with Martin from the start."

"Yeah, just look at how Ben moons after Martin every time his back is turned. Even Mrs. Stubbs assumes there's something between them. I took that line straight from my novel."

"Yes. I remember. The one that suggested they might not be needing both the rooms, but in your book, they immediately went to Martin's room and..."

"Well, we couldn't have that on the telly before the watershed! But I also kept the line 'Girl friend. No, not really my area.'"

"Precisely. And I just so happen to have the equipment in the specified area. Come here."

Sherlock closes his eyes as John’s hands shimmer over his chest, brushing his nipples. John must feel his heart hammering...he must, or, at least, that lovely sharp-edged shiver that just ran through his body. Sherlock takes a shaky breath and finds John’s lips. They part and he drinks in what’s inside, lapping John up like the wine.

John hooks a thumb under the top of Sherlock’s pajama trousers and slides them down. His cock pops out proudly.

"I'm actually a little bit drunk," John admits.

Yes, he is, but his hands work well enough—as do other parts. His eyes lock on the John’s cock straining beneath his jeans. Why is he even still dressed? He decides to help himself and traces his fingers along its generous length.

“I’m actually more than a little drunk,” John smiles brightly. It’s Sherlock’s favorite of John’s grins. Devilish and filled with joy.

Sherlock heart beats for him and that smile.

“You?” John asks and licks his lips.

“I’m...” he says and assesses himself. He is also more than a little bit drunk, but he’s uncertain how much is the wine and how much is John’s touch.

“I guess if you can't answer me, that's answer enough. Let’s get that pajama top off,” John finishes for him.

Both sets of hands button by button expose his bare chest. John keeps slapping Sherlock’s hands away, playfully calling him a “prat” while giggling.

Sherlock wraps his arms around John’s waist to stop him, but John distracts his hands and uses his own to trace the fine hairs on Sherlock's belly to the sharp points of his hipbones.

He loves the sound of his own groans echoing off the ceiling and the walls of 221B. He loves how he can't resist squirming under John’s ministrations. He’s so very overwhelmed he doesn’t hear Lestrade and Mycroft come up the stairs or the door open.

“Oh. My. God.” Lestrade blurts out, turning on his heels.

“Sherlock! Cover yourself,” Mycroft orders, but stands still, not budging one inch.

It’s John who pulls Mrs. Hudson’s handmade quilt over them both and begins to laugh riotously. Sherlock doesn’t see the humor in it, and his face flushes bright red while his chest turns into a cluster of crimson blotches.

“This is embarrassing,” John says, snorting through his nose.

"I’m out here,” Lestrade says, calling from the other side of the door. “I’ll just wait here until you two are either decent or finished.”

“What do you want that’s so important that you find the need to...interrupt us?" Sherlock huffs out.

“I thought you should know. We have concluded our investigation of the Temple and located its archives. Dr. Watson no longer need be concerned with any further intrusions into his mind.”

“That’s good to know,” John says. "Although I think you could have phoned. You know, on my phone."

“You’ve delivered your message. Time to leave,” Sherlock orders.

“Only you can look seductive when you roll your eyes,” John says.

“And you look adorable when you giggle, John.”

“I don’t giggle.”

“Yes you do.”

Sherlock nuzzles against the side of John’s neck, and this proves to be the limit for Mycroft, who thumps his umbrella against the floor.

"This is positively nauseating," Mycroft says.

"Please. Mrs. Hudson won't thank you if she has to clean up vomited pastries from her rug," Sherlock says.

“I’m still waiting out here,” Lestrade calls in.

“Have you no self-respect? No, please. Don't get up. I can show myself out. I shall take this up again with you when you are ready to listen and are less...exposed,” Mycroft calls back as he leaves.

“Alone at last,” John says and stretches his arm around Sherlock. “Where were we? Oh, yes. I was worshiping your hip bones. Do lie down so I can continue.”

“But of course.”

Sherlock throws off the quilt and spreads himself luxuriously back across the couch. His body relaxes and he waits for John’s breath to heat his skin. John crawls on top of him, his weight pushing Sherlock exquisitely down into the couch. He kisses the hollows of his belly and returns to his hip bones.

“You need to take off those pants,” Sherlock says and rolls his hips. John gasps, then swipes his tongue down to the base of his cock. His hands disappear and Sherlock hears the snap of the elastic band on his pants as John removes them.

John’s cock pulses against Sherlock’s leg. A whimper bubbles up from inside him as John's tongue slowly measures the length of Sherlock’s cock. When John reaches the tip, he laps at the slit then gently kisses it before taking it down his throat.

Sherlock's hands roam across John’s shoulders. John pulls his lips gently down the length of his cock. It’s the little murmurs between each slide up and down that drive Sherlock a little closer to the edge. His cock swells larger in John's mouth. He’s hard and aches more with each silky, slippery slide.

He can’t help but writhe and roll his hips slowly beneath John. Both of John's hands try to hold him by the hips and his fingers flex into his skin. His thumbs push in and an intriguingly sweet pinch of pain fills Sherlock. His thighs quiver with anticipation.

“John,” he moans. “Please fuck me.”

“I will, love.” He reaches for the lube under the cushion. Sherlock wonders when he found that secret hiding place. John positions himself between his legs. He lifts one of Sherlock's legs over his good shoulder to make more room for the both of them on the couch.

Sherlock lifts his chin to watch John squeezing the lube into his palm and warming it, but it’s his blue eyes and how they’re glistening with tears of joy that makes Sherlock’s heart almost spring from his chest.

“Please,” Sherlock murmurs again.

The telly still flickers in the background as John strokes Sherlock’s cock with one of his slippery hands while the knuckles on his other hand tease against his balls.

The groan forms deep inside him, and Sherlock tries his best not to let it blossom into a sob as John’s fingers push inside.

“John,” Sherlock says, and his own voice feels as if it’s far away. Sherlock knows the science behind it all, but with John it’s not just science, it’s an art. He plays his prostate like a virtuoso.

Sherlock all but disappears into this feeling of building bliss that John’s talented fingers create inside him. Everything is far, far away except the music that John strokes beneath his fingers.

He gasps and moans John's name in anticipation as his fingers leave. Sherlock's breath hitches as John replaces them with his heated cock.

Sherlock is forced to think of Mycroft to keep his climax from taking hold of him as John moves in and out. He’s almost over the edge and ready to fall, fast.

“John,” Sherlock begs.

John instinctively slows and stops. The tip of his cock is still inside as he bends forward for a lingering kiss. As his tongue swirls, John slowly begins the same rhythm again.

"It's fine, love. Come for me," John says.

His orgasm gathers in a matter of moments.

This rush of feeling, this love would have overwhelmed him at one time. Now, he embraces it without hesitation.

Time slows; his perception focuses to a pinpoint. He closes his eyes as his arousal swells like a flood behind a dam ready to burst. He once thought that he would be torn apart by an intimacy such as this—that it would consume him.

He feels John's orgasm and his own crest. When they come, they come together.

"I love you," Sherlock whispers.

He'd once resigned himself that no one would ever be with him, that he would live out a solitary existence. Solve crimes, retire to the country, tend bees, forever alone. Even as a child he knew, though, that he was missing something. A piece of himself. He was meant to have someone at his side. He'd always sensed that something important was waiting for him. That other piece of him.

"Open your eyes. Look at me. Look at me," John murmurs.

Sherlock does.

That part of him is missing no longer. He has a partner in all things. In bed, in danger, in life or death. With every thump of his heart, every breath he takes, he is no longer alone. It is their heart, their breath. He owes all to the time when he was John Watson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How to end a story is more important to me than how it began. I know, I know. We remember the openings to a lot of famous stories (I cite du Maurier's first line of Rebecca in the previous chapter), but it's always the ending that I love the most. Holden Caulfield's last words of "Don't ever tell anybody anything. If you do you start missing everybody," or Huck Finn's "Aunt Sally, she's going to adopt me and sivilize me, and I can't stand it," or Sydney Carlton's "It was a far, far better thing than I have ever done..." No flowery imagery. Instead simple words conveying complex ideas. 
> 
> We want memorable and meaningful last words. I think all writers must suffer through the "what do I do now?" phase as they approach the end of any work. Most of us don't have an ending set in our heads fleshed out. Yes, we have some idea of how we'd like it go, but that doesn't mean that's the way it all comes out. We think we hear symphonies when it's really our siblings playing chopsticks. I had a very different ending in mind when I made my original outline for this story. But it's really the last words that I agonized over most. 
> 
> And agonize I did. I told recently folded I didn't want an open-ended finale to this story. Unlike Being John Malkovich, I wanted closure, but I did want a connection to that story's end. Hence why I included the last words from Being John Malkovich: "Look at me. Look at me." Not the same context, but they fit this new world. 
> 
> As for the very last words...this brings me back to the final lines I cited from famous works. Not that I'm comparable to Salinger, Twain, or Dickens, but as I stated before, sometimes simple is not so simple. Yes, the last words in Being John Watsonish are obviously an allusion to Doctor Who. It's 11's last line: "I will always remember when the Doctor was me." It was one of the better final Who send-off speeches in my opinion. When I wrote the words, it was actually Sherlock's voice I heard in my head with the turn on the words "when I was John Watson." 
> 
> Thank you one and all for reading. And I hope you found the ending as satisfying as the journey there.

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on Tumblr: [**elwinglyre Tumblr**](https://elwinglyre.tumblr.com/)!


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